When Chase Met Molly
by allyelle
Summary: Chase and Molly were as different as chalk and cheese. He was cold and cynical and she was a quirky, hopeless romantic. He knew, despite her words, that they could never be friends. Yet after years of chance encounters, it seemed that fate disagreed. The line of friendship and love blurs, and it raises the question—can men and women ever truly be 'just friends' ?
1. Vodka Philosophies

**A/N:** Hello and thank you for deciding to read _"When Chase Met Molly"!_

This story is based on the classic romance film _"When Harry Met Sally"._ I re-watched it and I instantly pictured Chase and Molly in the respective roles, and thus, this piece of FanFiction was born. The film is witty and adorable and I recommend watching it if you haven't already.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harvest Moon,_ Nora Ephron's _When Harry Met Sally,_ nor do I own any of the other films / songs / books that may be mentioned throughout the entirety.

 **22/03/17:** I've rewritten this, but nothing plot-wise has altered. The only changes I've made is enhancing description and tweaking dialogue. Since writing the sequel, the simplistic writing style of this irritated me and I wanted them to coincide. I'm pedantic, but what can you do...

 **allyelle~**

* * *

 _Friendship always benefits; love sometimes injures._

 **—Seneca**

* * *

 **.:. One .:.**

She was twenty, living in the city, and an undeniable mess.

But when she met him, things got even worse.

 **.:.**

Crying was the only sound in the hotel room.

Molly was curled into a foetal position on the bed, staring at the telephone on the nightstand, each blink taking away more of her clarity. She knew that it was a bad idea to call her; Kathy didn't have a knack for sympathy. The girl made one feel worse before they felt better; she was both the sun and the storm.

Yet Molly couldn't imagine descending into a state worse than this. Rubbing her eyes, she punched in the numbers. Kathy answered after the third ring, the simple sound of her southern greeting opening the floodgate to tears.

"Ha!" Kathy exclaimed through the receiver. "Say it, honey. Say I told you so!"

Molly pouted and dried her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. "Tell me why I thought it would be a good idea to call you?" She exhaled, her voice scratchy and nasalized. "Some sympathy would be nice, perhaps reassurance, but _no—"_

 _"Say it,"_ she pressed.

 _"Fine,"_ Molly hissed. "You told me so. Happy?"

"You betcha. Now, I told you as _soon_ as you started dating Darren that he was no good! A darn poisonous snake, he is—"

 _"Kathy,"_ she warned as she wrapped her hands around her knees, pressing the phone against her shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry…" she sighed, the pride in her voice wilting into concern. "Where are you now, hon? You know I'm only a boat ticket away."

Molly blinked; her eyes were dry and aching. Still, with salt-masked vision, she scanned the hotel room. It was styled in various shades of brown: the curtains, the carpet, the bed, and she felt camouflaged by it all. With her muddy brown hair and eyes, she was dull.

 _Replaceable._

But a dull hotel room was a better alternative than staying in the apartment she had shared with her boyfriend— _ex-boyfriend_ —when she walked in on him and another girl.

"Karen," she uttered the name like a curse. "That was her name. The _'we're just friends'_ Karen. I'd seen her around... and, oh, Kaths. She's beautiful. She's the _Jolene_ Dolly was singing about."

"Oh, Molly. Don't be so _dramatic,"_ she reprimanded. "Where are you? I'm worrying like hell over here."

"I… I'm just in a hotel," Molly said. "You know if I could come over to that island, I would in a heartbeat, but—"

She couldn't.

As a university student, funds and time were limited. Kathy had also been a university student, but she soon discovered too much enjoyment in the bottom of a bottle. Once her father—Hayden—found out, he forced her to drop out and return to Castanet. This left Molly friendless, and as of recently, boyfriend-less.

"You know I can't," her reply was solemn. A sob escaped her lips as she realised how long it would be until she was attacked by one of Kathy's suffocating embraces. "I need the money for a new apartment… I can't exactly live in a cardboard box now can I?" She forced a smile to lighten the mood.

"I know, I know."

Her voice was drowned by the rowdy laughter echoing in the background. Molly pictured her in the bar which her father owned. It was frozen in a western movie set, with horseshoes nailed to wooden posts and its dimmed lights, while scents of must and liquor clouded the air. The blonde would be sloped over the bar, admiring her nails as she sipped a cocktail which her father naively believed to be juice.

"I just miss you is all, Molls," her voice was hushed and she barely caught it over the clinking of glasses. "I hate it when you're like this. There ain't much I can do through a phone now is there? But maybe if you _listened_ to me in the _beginning…"_

A ghost of a smile touched Molly's lips. "But in your _absence,"_ she began, swiftly changing the topic. "I've ordered strawberry ice-cream and rented some movies. It's the next best thing to you, I suppose."

"What about your stuff?"

Molly grimaced. "I grabbed the necessities and ran out… I didn't particularly want to linger…"

"When are you gonna go get it? If that jerk is being funny with you, I think daddy has some contacts in the city that I could give you—"

"It's fine, Kaths," she interrupted. "It's a breakup. I don't need a bunch of hit-men to fight for my tears."

"So, when?"

"…Next week?" she offered. "I don't know."

"No, Molls. You _do_ know, and you're going next week. You need to move on and forget about that cheating snake!"

 _"M-Move on?"_ Molly spluttered, almost dropping the phone. "It's only been a few hours!"

"I know you. You're gonna be shacked up in that hotel room for the next few weeks, curtains closed, eating nothing, I repeat, _nothing_ but strawberry ice-cream. Then you'll replay _Dirty Dancing_ on a constant loop and listen to _Jolene_ until you've ran out of tears. You'll avoid a meeting with Darren until you're basically dead!"

Molly frowned. "Okay, _firstly,_ you knew I was eating strawberry ice-cream because I just said so. And secondly, the movie I rented was _Pretty Woman._ Plus, the curtains are _not_ closed! I'm just… sensitive to the… light."

To prove a point, Molly flicked on the sidelight and cringed, like a vampire exposed to sunlight. She immediately switched it off to be emerged in the comfort of darkness once more.

"I'll tell you what to do," Kathy said, refusing to take no for an answer. "You ditch that calorie pink mush and, even though it's a great film, ditch _Pretty Woman,_ too! Get your butt into that pretty blue dress and go out!"

"By my—?"

"Yeah, Molls," Kathy interrupted, and she could hear the eye-roll. "By _yourself._ Celebrate that you dodged a damn bullet!"

 **.:.**

Reluctantly taking Kathy's advice, Molly soon found herself stood outside of an Italian bistro, the blue chiffon of her dress billowing around her frame in waves. It was the restaurant she had always asked Darren to take her into, but he never did. He had something against pasta, he had said. It reminded him of worms.

Perhaps Kathy was right. Had she dodged a bullet?

The bell chimed above the door as she entered, and Molly half-expected to see a tumbleweed drift past. It was empty apart from a few men chugging down beer at the bar. She straightened her dress and took a window seat, placing her purse onto the red and white table cloth. Glancing outside, she noticed a lone pot of geraniums on the sill.

A waitress with a tight ponytail sashayed over to take her order. She wore a bored expression and smacked gum between her teeth. Molly flushed, realising she hadn't opened the menu. Apologising, she fished one from the stand, and after stumbling over her pronunciation, asked for whichever the chef recommended. A steaming bowl of minestrone soup was placed under her nose, neighboured with a crusty roll of bread.

Molly tore the bread and dunked it into the soup, staring idly out of the window. Suddenly, she caught sight of two people. Darren and Karen, hand-in-hand, leaving a bar across the street. The bread dropped into the soup and she broke down.

"As a chef, I draw personal offence when somebody takes a mouthful of my food and bursts into tears."

Through blurry vision, Molly made out a man with pinned, peach-coloured hair and eyes the strangest hue of violet she had ever seen. Molly envied those with unusual eyes. Kathy's were bright green and Darren's were the lightest shade of blue.

"Well?"

His voice was deep and drawn out. Arching an eyebrow, he pursed his lips and crossed his arms. By his expression, Molly knew that she had been staring like a fish out of water. Heat rose to her face.

"What's wrong with it?"

He nudged his head down. The bread was sinking and dissolving into mush.

"Sorry to disappoint, but you won't find an answer by staring into the depths of my eyes."

Molly hastily averted her gaze. "I-It's not your food at all!" She blundered, smacking a palm against her forehead. Chefs were like highly strung artists, and she had offended one. "It's just that my boyfriend—"

The chef rolled his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. Molly stood to leave when she heard footsteps. He had returned with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He clanked them down onto the table and sat down opposite, posture tired and sluggish.

He dashed some of the colourless liquid into each glass and nudged one towards her. Molly glanced down sceptically. "A-Are you sure drinking on the job is such a good idea? You know, there's fire in kitchens and alcohol… well, _explosions. Causalities..."_

His eyes circled the room, waving the glass in the same direction. "Buzzing in here, isn't it? If you haven't noticed, you're the only customer. This place isn't exactly a hotspot at midnight on a Tuesday."

Molly gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry about this… um… I'm Molly."

"An answer to a question I never asked. Good to know."

He downed his drink and topped it back up again. A little intimidated, she took a sip and made a face of revolution. It was like fire scorching her throat.

"Oh, boy. Do I wish I had my strawberry ice-cream," said Molly, grimacing. "I know it's late, and I should probably go home. But the thing is, my boyfriend—no, _ex-boyfriend_ —will be going back to said _home_ probably finishing off what I walked in on earlier! Then my best friend isn't even here, she's stuck on that stupid island because of a drinking problem, and now here I am, rambling to you and rooting myself into the same situation!"

With a noise of frustration, she gulped down the glass and slammed it onto the table. The chef was unfazed by her outburst and remained with a fist pressed against his cheek, eyes lidded and bored. It was as though she had burdened him with an explanation for a complicated maths equation, not her problems.

"Again, another answer to a question I never asked. You sure don't know how to zip it do you, Dolly?"

She narrowed her eyes. "It's _Molly."_

"See? You've talked that much I've already lost interest. Names are too difficult to remember. That's why I don't bother."

He leaned forward, as though to reveal a great secret, and pointed to each of the waitresses who were gossiping between themselves. His breath was mingled with liquor, and she wagered that the bottle had been his evening companion.

"Girl With Ponytail, Eyebrows and Buckteeth. I don't know their real names, nor do I care to find out."

"You must be popular here," Molly smiled wryly, putting hands to the side of her mouth. "'Hey, Eyebrows, bring this to table three!' 'Buckteeth, collect those glasses!'"

His lips slanted, forming a crease on one side. It was awkward, as though he hadn't learned how to produce a genuine smile. Molly wondered what his real smile was like, one that was natural and caught off guard.

"It comes naturally, what can I say."

Her eyes skirted past his shoulder and she noticed Girl With Ponytail staring at him with something akin to longing. It was a look of affection, a stolen glance, lip tremulous in fear that her gaze burned his neck.

"Ever had a girlfriend?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Have they ever broken your heart?"

"Poetic," he rolled his eyes and knocked the drink back. "Not unless they didn't have my heart to begin with."

 _"Poetic,"_ she mimicked, laughing lightly. "You and I would make great friends."

Her laughter ceased and her chest tightened when she thought of the absence of Kathy.

"Impossible." He reclined and kicked his feet up onto the opposite chair, removing the clips so blonde curls fell into his eyes. "You can't be friends with the opposite sex without wanting to date them." He studied her face and his expression soured. "Eventually," he concluded. "But _certain_ thoughts would run through your head anyway, and it would be ruined. Pointless. Best to avoid it."

"Well, aren't you confident with that opinion!" Molly piped as she topped up her glass and threw it back, the alcohol spurring her boldness. "I don't see how it matters… I for one think you can _easily_ be friends with the opposite sex _without_ wanting to date them."

"Confident in that opinion, _are you?"_ he mocked. "Name an example and prove my well researched philosophy wrong… oh, and Dolly?"

"It's _Molly!"_ she shrieked, banging her fist against the table, earning herself glares from the nearby waitresses. She attempted to read his name badge, but the alcohol refused to let her focus. "Chesney!"

Something which resembled a laugh tumbled from his lips, but it sounded like a mixture of a gasp and a sob. He quickly covered his mouth with a hand to drown out the sound, but when he lifted his eyes, they were crinkled at the corners.

"Chesney? I've had Calvin and Mase, but never a Chesney. Well done, that's my new favourite."

He swilled his glass and stared out of the window. A drunkard stumbled past, his hands patting the pane to regain footing. He was soon followed by a smitten couple who bore into each other's eyes like the stars were held within. The chef—or as Molly donned Chesney—scoffed at the sight, switching his attention to her.

"Like I was saying, being friends with a boyfriend first doesn't count."

"I know that it's a possibility," she started, eyebrows knit in thought. "I've… just never had any first-hand experience. Compare it to this: you know the moon is up there, but you haven't very well gone and explored it, have you? You just _know."_

"How do you know I haven't? Gone up to the moon, I mean."

"Because you _haven't!"_

"Fair enough, I haven't."

He emitted a beat of laughter, but it was gone as soon as it came. It was practiced, Molly soon came to realise, much like the slanted curve of his lips. The only real emotion he had revealed was his odd laugh—which he attempted to mask—that sounded uncanny to hyperventilation.

"But the moon and my philosophy are two completely different things."

"Really? Because I don't see it."

"You said you had a boyfriend?"

 _"Ex-boyfriend,"_ she corrected.

"Whatever," he dismissed, the glass spilling from his intoxicated imbalance. "I have an example of my philosophy."

"Do share your knowledge, _Socrates,"_ she said, attempting to match his frequent drawl, but her voice just sounded slurred.

"This ex-boyfriend of yours most likely shared your naive philosophy. He thought he could be friends with that girl—"

"Karen," she murmured, as though she had swallowed something distasteful.

"Yeah, yeah. Karen happened. He thought he could just be friends with her, right? Then you happened, stumbling in here with your tears and your red-eyes, using vodka as an antidote to prove your own damn philosophy wrong," he finished, downing another glass and clanking it down onto the table.

His words reminded her of the times Darren had insisted him and Karen were just friends.

 _'Darren? Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Karen?'_

 _'God, Molls. How many times have I told you? We're just friends! Don't you trust me?'_

"That was harsh," her voice was tinged with hurt as it echoed around the glass.

He leaned his elbows onto the table, looking at her with his exquisite, violet eyes. "So is reality."


	2. The Cursed Apartment

**.:. Two .:.**

He was twenty-two, working in an Italian bistro, and an undeniable mess.

But when he met her for the second time, things got even worse.

 **.:.**

"Oh, _Chase~!"_

Maya fluttered her eyelashes and leaned—in what she hoped was a sexy pose—against the bar. But with ginger pigtails and a flouncy, pink dress, she resembled a twelve-year-old begging for sweets.

"A little birdie told me you were going apartment shopping today!"

"Really?" he mocked as he wiped down one of the tables. _Yeesh,_ he thought. _You would think that after years of spaghetti being invented, people could learn to eat it with a little more class._ "Was that little birdie a phone call you just listened in on? Or should I start calling you Snow White?"

He wasn't desperate for an apartment, but one a short distance away was going for a reasonable price—cheaper than what he was currently paying, anyway. Where he lives now, he has to catch a bus to work, and with this one, he could walk. How he detested the morning commute. Packed inside of a vehicle like a tin-of-sardines, the mingling of unpleasant odours and leaking headphones. City-folk tended to keep to themselves, picking a point straight ahead and allowing thoughts to swarm. But there would always be one—usually tourists—who would strike up a conversation.

Chase would act as though he hadn't heard them and alight at the next stop, regardless to whether he has to walk half-an-hour to work or not. He knew he would say something he'd regret if he spectated cheery smiles so early in the morning. He has never been a morning person, despite the demand of the profession. Then again, he wasn't known to be much of an afternoon or evening person, either.

"I hate it when you talk to me like that!" Maya placed her hands onto her hips, the resemblance of the child who had been denied of said sweets growing. "I was only _wondering_ if I could go with you!"

He supposed Maya was the closest thing he had to a 'girlfriend'. The official title between them had never been discussed, nor did he make any particular effort to discuss it. The city was a lonely place and even he—who derived no pleasure in other people's company—subsided to the solitary affects every once in a while.

"I'll do you a favour and put your 'wondering' to an end," he spun to face her, expression blank. "No."

"But~ _Chasey,"_ she whined and dashed over, wrapping her arms around his torso. He scowled, almost dropping the spray bottle in his hand.

He didn't need this.

"No," he thrust her arms back and placed the cleaning equipment under the counter, hanging up his apron and heading towards the door. "Maya, I swear. If I get back here to find the whole place burned to the ground, you can forget me cooking for you tonight."

His hand rested on the glass of the door as the bell chimed above. Yet Maya's quiet, teary voice halted him in his tracks.

"What are we, Chase? Can't you see I'm hinting that I want to buy an apartment with you? I've loved you for four years, and you barely even look at me!"

He scrunched his eyes closed and raked fingers through his hair. "I don't want to discuss this," he mumbled, the words almost lost in his hands as he stumbled over the pots of geraniums guarding the doorway.

 **.:.**

The first thing Chase heard when he entered the apartment building was a couple arguing. How annoying. Perhaps this was the reason why the apartment was going so cheap; insufferable neighbours.

"Darren, you have some _nerve!"_

The girl yelled, voice a few octaves lower than white noise. Chase hid around the corner and listened; he wasn't sure why. He wasn't particularly interested in a stupid lovers' quarrel.

"Quit yelling at me like that!" The male countered, voice gruff, the opposite of his squeaky companion. "What did you want me to do, huh? You've waited a month to come and get your stuff!"

"And _what,_ were you ever going to tell me that it is _dumped_ outside in the corridor for anyone to get their hands on? Plus, I can't _believe_ you're selling this place without consulting me! Need I _remind_ you—"

"Molls, quit it, would you? You're making a scene."

"You'd like that, _wouldn't you?_ Why don't you go and make some more of them with your _Little-Karen-Kins_ …" She paused then gasped, as though he had uttered something inherently offensive. "And don't call me _'Molls'_ like you have _any_ right!"

He had things to do, and rushing back to the restaurant to check that Maya hadn't ignited the place was one of them. With an expression of nonchalance, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rounded the corner. They wouldn't suspect that he had heard every word.

"Man!" The tall, pony-tailed man waved, like Chase was an old friend and a saviour bundled into one. "You must be Chase, right? I gotta bomb. Molls can show you around."

'Molls' or whatever he said her name was made a noise of frustration, hands curled into fists as Ponytail left. She spun around to face him, surprise dripping from her features.

"Y-You!" she pointed, as though he was some rare animal only found in select few apartment buildings. "W-What are you doing here?"

 _Dolly._ It had been a month since the tears and vodka philosophy session. She looked different. Not in a good way or a bad way, merely in an observational way. Her red, alcohol fused cheeks had faded, while previously puffy eyes had regained clarity.

His eyes skirted to her attire.

God, she was a _weirdo._

Her t-shirt printed a quote which she no doubt found of the utmost hilarity. An over-sized denim jacket from decades before hung from her shoulders, pinned with colourful badges. She wore purple leggings under a skirt while leopard patterned socks were pulled _over_ the leggings—why?—and ballet shoes, which were floral-printed.

She was the epitome of a randomize button.

Chase didn't know much about fashion, per se—he stuck to black button-downs and jeans on his days off—but this was mental. _Insane._ If Maya was here, she would have undoubtedly coined it _'The Perfect Fashion Failure'._

"Oh, you know," he drawled, looking around the corridor without interest. "Sightseeing. This dingy little apartment really is a tourist trap," his eyes flitted back to her and the corners of his lips quirked. She shifted her arms and her t-shirt read: _'My life is a blonde moment'._

"What?" she glanced down, her eyebrows pinched. "Why are you looking at me as though I've just sprouted three heads?" She crossed her arms, concealing the t-shirt once more. "I assure you, I haven't. Or... maybe I just can't see it. I do get odd looks sometimes."

"Three heads would be a normal sighting compared to that rainbow-vomit you decided to call an outfit this morning."

"Oh. It's the clothes, right?" She tossed her head back and laughed, ignoring his comment. Her laugh was squeaky and airy, revealing the gap between her front teeth.

"Well, I bought the t-shirt for my best friend a while back. She's blonde, but she forgot it before she left. What's that saying? If the shoe fits, or something? I think if the _t-shirt_ fits would be better though—"

"It pains me to say," he exhaled and ran a hand over his face. "That I don't speak gibberish."

"What I _meant_ to say is that I don't have... _many_ clothes left. In my hotel, that is. They're all..." she gestured to the corridor that was piled with boxes and odd pieces of furniture. "Here."

Her face twisted sourly as she glared at the boxes as though they had done something to personally offend. In the next moment, she proceeded to smash her head against the wall. Chase bowed an eyebrow. Perhaps this was the explanation for her derangement.

"Stupid. Darren," she monotonously spoke each word with the rhythmic thud of her head. "Stupid. Chesney. Stupid. Boys."

"I'm all for you giving yourself a brain haemorrhage, but I'd rather not waste valuable phone credit on an ambulance call."

"Your sarcasm is draining," she murmured, sighed, and leaned her head against the plaster.

"What, like this nostalgic catch up?" He folded his arms. "Are we done here? I came to look at the apartment, not to engage in witty exchanges."

She straightened and gave him a small, sad smile.

"C'mon then, Chesney," she said as she threw the apartment door open. "Let's commence the grand tour of my failed relationship."

"Oh, joy."

 **.:.**

"And to conclude our tour, this here is the master bedroom," she motioned, bowing and swirling her hands, the way she had been doing each time they entered a new room. She also distorted her voice to mimic one of those irritating, over-the-top television show presenters.

Even though she was painfully plain, her features altered once her personality shone through. It was like the sun; bright and obnoxious.

In that moment, Chase wondered what on earth he had done to deserve to be put in the same room with such a naive, annoying, loud-mouthed chatter-box again. Perhaps it was karma for sprinkling ungodly amounts of chili powder in dishes for rude customers.

"The legend is," she whispered, as though withholding a great secret. "That a two-timing douche-bag committed the treacherous sin of infidelity, right here, on this bed. Unbelievable, don't you think? Who knew such a loathsome creature could exist!"

"Wow," he whistled as he tugged back the curtains and inspected the busy, traffic clogged street outside. He could just about see the restaurant; a red, distorted dot, and most importantly, the absence of flames. "What a selling point. I must ask, will that affect future property value?"

"Possibly," she shrugged and joined him at the window. "But beware. The terrible curse of the apartment only latches onto those of pure morals. Luckily for you, with your pessimism and narrow-mindedness about girl-boy friendships, it labels you immune."

"What a relief," he rolled his eyes and strode into the kitchen once more to check that all of the appliances were up to scratch. What would be the purpose in a cheaper apartment if the kitchen was faulty? None. "Whatever, then. I'll take the damn thing."

"I was hired _only_ for my wonderful narration, not to deal with paperwork and _especially_ not to deal with Darren again. You'll just have to contact him for the paperwork, okay?"

"Ponytail, huh? It'll be a pleasure."

They left the apartment and she shut the door behind them.

"Too bad we couldn't be friends. But that's life, I suppose." She heaved up one of the boxes in the corridor and latched it between her hip and elbow, then extended a hand out to him. "Have a nice life, Chesney."

Chase quirked an eyebrow.

What the hell. He was never going to have to deal with such an irritating person again. It was best to say their goodbyes now. Maybe there really _was_ a _good_ in _good-bye._

He shook her hand and said, "Right back at you, Dolly."


	3. A Sandalled Passenger

**.:. Three .:.**

 ** _Two Years Later_**

The breeze of the city docks whipped though Molly's short, brown strands, one hand cold against the railing of the boat while the other gripped her phone as Kathy squealed excitedly into her ear.

"I can't _believe_ I'm gonna see you in a few hours, hon! Tell me, have you managed to get sailing on that boat of yours, yet? You'd better hurry! I haven't seen your cute face since last year, my hug will break your spine!"

Molly made her way over to the back of the boat, closest to the docks. She collapsed onto her knees and used her shoulder to hold the phone up as she attempted to figure out how to untie the rope from the cleat. It was one tight knot.

"Uh… working on it, Kaths," she humoured her. "Do you mind if I ring you back? My hat is falling off and my glasses are slipping down my nose. I don't want to drop my phone into the sea, either. What if I get captured by pirates? Who will I call? They'll make me walk the plank without so much of a goodbye phone call… my body washing up on Castanet a few months later."

"You really think those big, tough, burly—"

"Okay, I don't need to hear your pirate fantasy right now. I'll ring you back."

"You'd better. Bye, hon."

Molly hung up and stuffed the phone into her pocket, focusing all of her attention on getting the boat out to sea. But it was hopeless. She had rented the dingy little fishing boat being reassured that it would get her to Castanet in one piece. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and she relished in all of the money she would save if she found her own way to the island instead of purchasing an overpriced boat ticket.

Now, she was full of regret, her frugality like her own special karma.

Suddenly, she no longer felt the beating summer sun on the back of her neck—a shadow loomed over her, and underneath her nose, were a pair of sandals.

"Give me a ride," the sandals drawled.

Molly sighed, but didn't look up as the knot friction-burned her fingers. "No," she managed to keep her voice firm but calm, "this is my boat."

The sandals stepped back a few feet. "Impressive. You're telling me that you're the owner of this magnificent beauty of a yacht?"

"I'm telling you that I am _loaning_ this magnificent beauty of a yacht."

"And that stops me from getting a ride… how?"

"Your manners, for one, are an obstacle."

"Look, whatever your name is—"

She jerked her body up and set hands onto her hips as she glared—through sunglasses—at the man whose blonde hair was flattened with the addition of a black baseball cap, eyes also obscured with a pair of sunglasses.

"It's _Molly._ Thanks for asking."

"Dolly—"

"It's _Molly!"_

"Dolly, Polly, Molly. They all sound the same. _Molly,"_ he elongated the vowels and she had the inkling that he rolled his eyes. "That's what I said—"

She threw her hands into the air with exasperation. "No, you didn't!"

He stepped up onto the boat and lifted up his suitcase, making the vessel rock with the addition of a new weight.

"Oh, so now we have to conduct thorough introductions? How about a resume of all of my likes and dislikes while we're at it? Well, Polly—I like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain—"

"God, you're so _annoying!_ I asked for a name—wait, _no_ I didn't! I was still waiting for you to get _mine_ right!"

"You're so difficult," he grumbled and crossed his arms. "Whatever… I'm Chase. Can we leave now?"

Molly removed her sunglasses with haste. "C-Chesney?!"

He also removed his sunglasses, violet eyes revealed behind dark panes of glass. "On second thought…"

Chase spun on his heel when he accidentally caught the rope docking the boat. It looped over the cleat and became loose. The fishing boat was now drifting out to sea. Maybe she should have tried _that_ method instead...

"Looks like you got that ride after all."

 **.:.**

"Don't try to be overly friendly with me. Sharing this boat with you is enough."

"Aren't you as pleasant as ever." Molly shook her head and reclined against the rail while Chase steered the boat. "Just tell me. What are you doing going to Castanet? It's a little obscure, don't you think?"

"Can't be any more obscure than your reason."

She hummed in disagreement. "No, my reason isn't obscure. My best friend—Kathy—lives here. I always told myself, once I graduated from university, I would come and live here. The city is a lonely, glum, stifling place… I hated it. I'm moving here… hoping to have a fresh start, I suppose."

Chase snorted and tossed her a sideward glance. "How optimistic."

"What, and why are _you_ here?" She rounded on him, his sarcasm grating on her nerves. "To refuel that pessimism of yours? I have to say, if that's the case, Castanet isn't the place for you. You belong in the city."

"Don't try and tell me where I belong."

A flash of anger stung his eyes, but the sea breeze soon soothed the emotion into nonchalance. "I was stuck in a rut in that place—a dead-end chef in a dead-end relationship and even living in that apartment that previously _housed_ a dead relationship was getting depressing."

"Oh, don't tell me!" Molly laughed, clapping her hands. "Did the curse of Darren get to you? Maybe you do have good morals, after all."

"Don't kid around. I haven't got a good bone in my body. Satan himself would be lucky to have my soul."

"Which bit of the bible is that from? I seem to recognise it."

"Hilarious," he drawled and pushed up his sunglasses. "Like everything dead in the city, the produce was getting that way too," he continued. "Nothing was fresh. As a chef, what can you do without fresh ingredients? It felt like I was trying to get to the moon with no rocket."

"I mean yeah, I understand that sob story and all, but," he shot her a glare and mimicked her position against the railing. They were sailing through open water and steering wasn't necessary. "Why Castanet? It's not like it's a buzzing hotspot or a place to go on a bucket list."

"It's ironic," he said, his eyes lowered to his hands. "I always thought Maya and I—my ex-girlfriend, that is—would never have any future. She'd loved me since she was eighteen, she had said. I couldn't love her back. I don't think I can really love anyone. I feel like some people are just born like that. Stubbornly unlovable."

Molly's lips parted with surprise. "You've never loved anyone?"

"Attraction and lust, sure. Love? I'd feel defeated to fall in love. It's not in my nature." He flipped off his cap, letting his peach-blonde strands tousle in the breeze. "How did we end up talking about this?" He frowned, berating himself for his loose tongue. "No, what I was saying is that it's ironic I'm moving to Castanet. I'm moving _because_ of Maya."

"Sorry, but that seems like a contradiction."

"Her folks and grandmother live over here. Run some inn or something or other. I don't know the details, nor do I really care. But her grandmother—Yolanda—is a legendary chef. Retired, but Maya—which I still don't know why, what with the way I treated her—put in a good word for me. Studying. That's my reason. Happy now?"

He stared at her with pursed lips and furrowed brows. He was silently blaming her for making him explain his reasoning, despite having spilled the details on his own accord.

"Studying," she groaned, smoothing her tangled hair. "Yeesh, boy am I glad that period of my life is over."

"This may come as a bit of news, but I actually like to cook, not just to fulfil a career path. Creating new things," his eyes gleamed with passion. "It's refreshing."

Molly tapped her nails against the railing. "At university, I studied environmental science."

"What, you want to be a farmer? Well, shoot for the stars, I'd say."

"I didn't particularly want to be a farmer, no," she shook her head and looked out to sea, noticing the formation of an island. "But who really knows what life has in store for us?"

 **.:.**

 _"Molly!"_

Kathy sprinted up the wooden planks of the islands docks towards the boat—which, by some miracle, managed to survive the journey—with the tassels on her cowboy boots matching the pendulum swings of her ponytail.

True to her word, she engulfed Molly into a spine-crushing-hug.

"You said you would call me _back!"_ she reprimanded. "I thought pirates had actually—" she lifted her head from Molly's shoulder, a crooked grin plastered onto her face as she looked towards the boat. "Who's your _friend,_ hon?"

Molly swivelled her body around to see Chase climbing off the boat.

"Friend?" she repeated, "we're not _friends!"_


	4. Friendly Acquaintances

**A/N:** The time skips will either be two months or two years for consistency (they'll always be mentioned at the top, and if they aren't, there is no time skip—or a drastic one, anyway).

Also, in case you're wondering, I will not be writing about Molly and Chase's introductions to the town because I don't feel that it's relevant; assume that they have met everyone during the time skip. The Harvest Goddess and the bells which are also irrelevant to the plot will not be included. Everything else is normal—Chase is Yolanda's apprentice, works in the Brass Bar and Molly is starting a farm.

Enjoy :)

 **allyelle~**

* * *

 **.:. Four .:.**

 _ **Two Months Later**_

Molly and Chase were neighbours.

Not friends, nothing with any sort of emotional attachment.

Just. Neighbours.

But then you can see her surprise, when he showed up at her door, asking a very strange question.

"Let me cook for you tonight," he had said, in the most bored voice imaginable—like asking one to close a window.

 _"Cook?"_ Molly choked on the word, clutching onto her door frame for support.

It was nearing the end of winter, yet the island had been blessed with snowfall. White dust clung to Chase's hair and jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets as he nestled into his houndstooth scarf. Molly wanted to question his interesting choice of footwear. After all, she was shivering in her turtleneck. She pitied those poor toes.

"As in, what I do," he drawled, eyes roaming around her farmland in distaste. "For a living. Some intellectuals call us _chefs,_ not that you would _know—"_

"You—just shut up," she pointed at him and he followed her finger, cross-eyed. "I thought you said we aren't _friends."_

"We aren't," he clarified immediately with the slight shake of his head. "I'm bored. Plus, I want to try this new dish. Maya likes anything I cook, but you're the only one who cried whilst eating my minestrone soup," he shrugged, lips curved. "I like honesty."

Maya—who had moved back to the island last month—always implored Chase to cook for her, and he did. Molly wondered if he acted out of guilt or perhaps as thanks for landing him the apprenticeship, but she didn't care to ask.

"You're so right. I was honestly crying at how disgustingly salty that soup was—oh, wait! Those were my _tears_ after I just broke up with my _ex-boyfriend!"_

"Whatever," Chase rolled his eyes, tightening his scarf. "I'm not getting into that philosophy with you again. Are you coming or not? I'm regretting even suggesting it. You're being annoying."

"You're… actually... _serious._ "

It took her a moment to comprehend that for the first time in over two years, he was making some sort of apathetic effort to spend time with a neighbour, without leaving it up to the fate of their chance encounters.

"No, okay, fine," she agreed. "A dinner between… wait, what even _are_ we?"

"Last time I checked, I was human. Not sure about yourself."

He averted his eyes past the door where an abundance of empty strawberry ice-cream tubs situated, the speakers from the TV playing the ending scene from a rom-com.

Breezy laughter fell from her lips as she mused her hair. "Don't judge me because of my _slight_ obsession with strawberry-ice cream. It's one of my simple pleasures in life."

He rolled his eyes once more and Molly debated asking him if he was inflicted by frequent headaches, but he was already walking down the path.

"See you at eight," he waved with the back of his hand, voice rising as he ventured further away. "I'm guessing you know where I live. Try not to fall over the bridge on your way over. If you do, don't expect me to fish you out. I wear _sandals."_

 **.:.**

Molly lived in a rickety old farmhouse and worked shifts between Horn Ranch and Marimba Farm to pay her way. Even though she had a degree in environmental science, she never once considered the prospect of becoming a farmer until Chase sardonically suggested it.

But she decided to give it a try—she had plenty of land at her disposal and it would be a shame for it to be wasted. She had no animals, but her turnip and potato crops thrived.

Later that evening, clothed in her blue dress which she layered with a jacket and a woollen scarf, she tucked a basket underneath her arm brimmed with fresh ingredients as she trudged through the snow towards Chase's house.

He was clad in an apron when he greeted her. His hair was messy and frizzed, clips failing their purpose. His fingers raked through the strands in a poor attempt to tame them. The aroma of food wafted outside, making her mouth water. His eyes grazed her frame, frowning, as though he had ordered apples and she was oranges.

"You've messed up my sarcasm," his frown deepened as he leaned sluggishly against the frame. "You should have worn red. That way, I could've made a comment about Little Red Riding Hood. Blue? What can I do with that?"

"Oh, darn."

Clearly she had been spending too much time with Kathy. Some of her southern jargon tended to slip into her speech, though luckily, Molly never managed to call people 'hon'.

"And what would that make you?" she continued. "The wolf? I hope my grandmother isn't in the pot."

"I'm a chef, and you expect me to cook grandmothers? Far too tough. Surprisingly, people don't tend to appreciate false teeth floating in their soup."

"And I thought I was in for a treat!" she exclaimed, hand on heart.

He shook his head and retreated back into the kitchen. But with the open door, Molly presumed that she was being invited inside. She followed him into the kitchen and placed her basket down onto the counter. Slipping off her jacket, she hung it on the back of a dining chair as she looped the scarf from around her neck, relishing in the warmth of his house, like a cat in the sun.

Organised was the word that came to mind when she examined Chase's house. Spotlessly clean and minimalistic, everything had a place—dogeared recipe books were ordered alphabetically and when he opened a cupboard, she caught a glimpse of the perfectly assembled line of spices.

His attention would occasionally drift from the pans to the row of utensils. If he noticed that one was skewed, he would straighten it immediately. He always held a cloth in his free hand, wiping invisible mess.

"Courtesy of Little _Blue_ Riding Hood," she gestured to her attire. "I've brought some _fruits_ for your labour," she announced, mock-bowing. "Well, they're not fruits at all," she frowned at the realisation. "They're vegetables."

"Then you'll forgive me if I check for worms."

He flipped the frying pan, sprays of colour dancing in the air. He put another pan onto boil and removed the covering on the basket, eyeing the produce skeptically.

"And here I thought, Dolly with a farm," he started, turning his attention back to the stove. "What would she attempt to grow? Probably strawberries to make more ice-cream, right? Or did that environmental science degree teach you the science of growing pots of ice-cream straight from the stem?"

"They didn't, actually."

Chase began plating up the food. His eyebrows were knit in concentration as he drizzled the sauce, lip pulled between his teeth.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked.

"Vodka or orange," his voice was distracted as he arched backwards to analyse his work. He spun the plate and studied it from a different angle. He nodded and spared her a glance. "I don't care."

Molly shot him a questioning look as she searched the cupboards for glasses.

"Wow. You really are a middle man, aren't you? No grey areas with Chesney," she joked, pouring two glasses of orange juice.

He rolled his eyes. "Zip it and set the table."

 **.:.**

Chase cooked something fancy.

Molly knew it was fancy because she couldn't remember the name of it and she would rather stare at it than consume it. But it was nice. She told him so, and he told her to find some better adjectives.

"Same dress?" he asked suddenly as he pushed his plate aside. "I recognise it. Surprised you still fit into that thing."

"You know, that's incredible," she sipped the sweet, fizzing wine that he cracked open. "You remember this dress, but not my name? Your mind is _backwards."_

"Names have connotations," he swilled the contents in his glass, eyes following the golden whirlpool. "First you remember a name, then that pushes for a friendship. Friends think they have an ability to wade in and try and get to know you. I don't want any of that… I'd rather just keep up my front and not make any connections."

"What a lonely life to lead," she exhaled, eyes flecked with pity. "I'll tell you what. I'll tell you the story of this dress."

"Oh, joy. Another one of your narrations? Aren't I in for a treat?"

"Shut up, Chesney. You know what you bargained for this morning when you invited me here."

"It was more of a whim, actually," he frowned and plucked the clips from his hair. He swept both hands through the strands, making him resemble the aftermath of an electrocution. "This may… be one of my many regrets," his words were almost lost in his glass.

Molly leaned her fist against her cheek, deciding to begin her story despite his indifference. "Do you ever just look at something, and you know you absolutely have to have it?"

Chase hummed in mild thought, attempting to look upwards at his hair. He shook his head and it flopped in his eyes. Molly wanted to buy him a hairband.

"When I look at fresh produce, maybe. But that's more of a necessity than a need. I'm a chef," a beat of self-decrepitating laughter left his lips. "Without my ingredients, I'm not a chef. Just a douche with hair-clips."

"That's the smartest thing that's ever come out of your mouth," Molly grinned into her glass. "Well, anyway. I was in the city and walking home near Christmas time. There was this boutique—near where you worked, I think—and I hinted at Darren so many times to get me this pretty blue dress. But you know what he got me? A plant. A blasted _plant._ We'd been dating for a year. After that, I went out and bought the dress myself."

"Is there a point to this story? Or do you just have an incurable condition to word vomit?"

"Ah, right. The point is, if you want something, you have to go out and get it. You can't rely on anyone else to get it for you. It's all on you."

Chase downed his glass and topped it up again, the corners of his lips quirked.

"And that, Dolly, might be the smartest thing that's ever come out of _your_ mouth."

 **.:.**

"I'd say thanks for the great company, but you really weren't," Chase quipped.

It was dark, his figure silhouetted against the orange light of the doorway. Condensation clouds escaped his lips when he spoke, arms wrapped around himself as he shifted his weight in a poor attempt to keep warm.

Molly stood outside, scarf pulled up to her nose while numb fingers latched around a box of leftovers. Chase had scolded her for dumping her belongings onto the dining table and he hung them onto their rightful place on the coat rack. Her scarf now held the scent of orange and cinnamon.

She laughed, but it was shaky, teeth chattering. "I suppose I'll see you around, _neighbour."_

"Oh, wait."

He suddenly dashed back inside, returning moments later holding a tub—similar to the one within her grasp. "Here's one of your _'simple pleasures in life',"_ his voice was monotone as he recited her earlier words. "Home-made, obviously."

He stacked the tub on top of the other. Through the transparent lid was strawberry ice-cream, cluttered with fresh strawberries and swirls of cream. Stunned, Molly lifted her eyes, but Chase stared past her, expression blank as his foot idly kicked the door to keep it from closing.

"We're," she murmured, pressing the tubs closer to her chest. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"God, why do you have to label things?" he groaned. "If anything, I prefer the term _friendly acquaintances."_

With one last eye roll, he slammed the door shut in her face.


	5. A Cinematic Education

**.:. Five .:.**

Disappointment whirled in Molly's stomach. With a groan, she flopped down onto the couch and kicked off her pair of fluffy-pink-bunny slippers. The phone was pressed against her ear while a tasseled cushion lay on her abdomen, fingers combing through the golden strings.

"Kathy, what do you _mean_ you _can't_ have the night off?"

"I mean exactly that," the blonde exhaled, the faint sound of tapping; the probable result of her finger nails against the bar. "Daddy forgot to tell me that it was Chase's night off, so I have to fill in. Can you believe it? That darn old man has a scatter brain sometimes," she giggled.

"But… _movie night,_ Kaths. Movies. Ice-cream. A night of _finery."_

"Honey, I'm sorry…" her speech trailed, a sudden gasp vibrating through the receiver. "Hey, why don't ya pop in? I know Chase isn't here to cook, but I make a pretty mean cocktail if I do say so myself."

"As fun as that sounds, I'm already in my pajamas. You know, the onesie that you got me for my birthday last year? It's more trouble to get out of than it's worth. Plus… _ice-cream,_ Kaths. Creamy pink goodness. I'm looking at the unopened tub on the coffee table and I would feel like I was cheating. It's watching with it's judgmental, watchful eyes, waiting to yell at me if I ditch it for one of your mean strawberry daiquiris."

"You and that darn ice-cream," she reprimanded, yet humour laced her tone. "You know, this is why you're still single. Ain't no room in Molls life for anything else."

"Don't I know it? You never truly get over a first love."

Kathy laughed, the unmistakable sound of Hayden's gruff calling echoing in the background.

"Sorry to cut this short, hon. But Owen's just arrived and daddy is yelling at me to get to work. Wish me luck with our most _annoying_ customer."

She grumbled something eligible and Molly knew a dramatic eye-roll would follow along with the flipping of hair.

"Have _fun~"_ she teased, and hung up.

Molly's eyes skirted the farmhouse in an attempt to find something to entertain her boredom. They reached the kitchen when she noticed the pair of plastic containers on the counter. Against her better judgement, she decided to dial Chase's number. He waited until the last ring before picking up.

 _"What?"_ he snapped.

"Yo," she greeted, cheery despite his rudeness. "It's me."

"You'll have to be more specific."

 _"Molly._ Your resident farmer."

"More like resident freak show."

"Um, rude."

"What do you want? I'm busy. Stop wasting my time."

"Busy? Doing _what?_ I've just got off the phone with Kathy. She says it's your night off."

"Exactly. And on my night off, I'm busy doing nothing."

"What a coincidence! I'm doing nothing too! Because you decided to have your _night off,_ Kathy had to work and cancel our movie night!"

"My sincerest apologies. Let me leave you in this period of _mourning."_

"Don't you dare hang up, Chesney. First, I have a proposition."

He exhaled. "Of course you do."

"As repayment for the dinner last week, I grant you the honour of being Kathy's replacement."

"Wow. Is this what it feels like to be knighted?"

"Most likely. I was even going to share my strawberry ice-cream with you. Now that, my _acquaintance,_ is an even greater honour."

"Like I thought this phone call could get any better."

He hung up.

Molly glared at her phone screen in outrage. She huffed, sunk her feet into her slippers and stabbed the spoon into the ice-cream. She immediately apologised to the dessert—it wasn't its fault that her neighbour was an inconsiderate idiot.

 **.:.**

A series of impatient knocks sounded on her door an hour later.

Molly trudged over to answer it, her slippers making dragging noises against the floorboards, a spoon dangling from her mouth while she was still clad in a onesie. She wasn't fazed by her appearance.

Yet Chase, who was on the other side, was. He snorted and arched an eyebrow. "You need help."

A black beanie was slouched on his head, pale hair loose and curled from the moisture. His houndstooth scarf was tossed around his neck, hiding his chin. His cheeks and nose were rosy from the cold.

"What a rude thing to say!" she pouted and whipped the spoon from her mouth. "Not even a—'hi, Molls. How are you doing? You're looking great, by the way. Did you do something with your hair? Boy, am I glad you invited me over! What a neighbourly gesture!'"

His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "How accurately you portray my character," he droned, face nonchalant. "You really should ditch this farmers dream and pursue script writing."

"Thanks for the advice," Molly waved the spoon at him. "I suppose I'll forgive your previous rudeness if that hand behind your back is holding onto some food."

"Isn't this your lucky day," he sidestepped her into the kitchen and placed the tin of cookies beside the two plastic containers. His eyes lingered over the bin—where empty tubs of ice-cream cluttered. "It's a miracle you haven't died," he murmured, face souring.

Molly popped one of the cookies into her mouth, ignoring Chase's complaints. They were orange flavoured, still warm.

"What can I say? I'm one tough cookie. Get it? _Cookie."_

He blinked at her and yanked the cookie from her mouth and snapped it in half.

"Tough," his lips quirked as he slumped down into the couch.

 **.:.**

"I was eleven the last time I cried—properly, I mean. Onions don't count. But this— _this,"_ Chase animatedly gestured to the floor where a countless number of DVD's were scattered. The duo were stood amidst them, like two shipwrecked sailors aboard a raft. "Is bringing me pretty damn _close."_

"What?" Molly sat and crossed her legs, thumbing through the titles. "My taste in films is _fantastic._ I mean, look— _Titanic?"_ She looked up at him expectantly, tilting her head.

Chase's eye twitched. Molly burst into a fit of laughter at his expression, hitting her back against the wooden floor and clutching her stomach. She couldn't understand why it was so funny—perhaps it was grouping _'Chase'_ and _'Titanic'_ into a single thought.

"God," he inhaled sharply and Molly rolled forwards. His shoulders were hunched and shaking. At first she thought he was crying, but then his hand slipped from his mouth to reveal a crooked smile and a flash of teeth.

"You have the weirdest laugh—like a squeaky dog toy or something," he had his back to her, but he sounded breathless. "That's inhuman, I'm telling you. I think you should see someone."

"Says you!"

"No, no," he spun to face her, shaking his head. His lips were slanted into an awkward, repressed smile. "I don't laugh."

"And you call _me_ inhuman!" Molly waved and patted the floor beside her. "Come here."

Chase appeared suspicious but obliged, curling a hand around his knee.

"This film," she held the DVD sleeve above their heads as though it was a sacred, spiritual object. "Is vital to understanding a girls heart. And if you would like a girlfriend in the near future, Chesney, you need to watch it. You see, I'm a girl. I know these things."

"Wait, what?"

"What?"

"You're a _girl?"_

"Oh, _shut up,"_ she batted his arm. "This film touches _souls."_

"Lucky me. I don't have one."

 _"Jack!"_ she imitated, extending her arms like a plane taking flight. _"Jack, I'm flying!"_

"You know what _will_ be _flying?"_ said Chase, lips barely moving through gritted teeth. "This _monstrosity."_ He snatched the DVD out of Molly's hands, strode over to the door and threw it out into the night.

 _"Chase!"_ Molly yelled as she stumbled to her feet, tripping over several DVD's in the process. "How could you—that—that was one of my favourites! Oh, god… that was one of _Kathy's_ favourites, too… do you know how _long_ it takes to ship things from the city! You—you—"

 _"You,"_ he whacked her over the head with another DVD. "Need to be _educated."_

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I like what I like."

Chase narrowed his eyes and mimicked her posture, a slight curve to his lips. "And I hate what I hate."

 **.:.**

After an hour of disagreements, they decided upon the film _'Brief Encounter'._ Chase still wasn't impressed by the 'forbidden love plot' or with the romance genre at all. But Molly didn't have anything else. She certainly didn't want to take him up on his suggestion of fetching his collection of gangster and horror films.

"I had no thoughts at all," he began, syncing his words with the female protagonists. "Only an overwhelming desire not to feel anything again."

Molly stifled a laugh and threw a pillow at his head. "Do my ears _deceive_ me or are you quoting a romance film? You're like the biggest cynic there is. A little ironic, wouldn't you say?"

He scowled and tossed the pillow back. "Maya likes this film," he mumbled, taking small bites from a cookie. "More like she likes the outfits and the aesthetic… I listened to it while cooking blanquette de veau once."

"You remember the _odd_ things yet forget the _normal._ Like I said—you're _backwards."_

"Beats being straight out _odd."_

They returned their attention back to the television.

 _'I wish you'd stop talking,'_ the protagonist began. _'I wish you'd stop prying and trying to find things out. I wish you were dead_ — _no, I don't mean that. It was silly and unkind, and I shouldn't have said it. But I do wish you'd stop talking.'_

Molly shovelled another mouthful of ice-cream into her mouth, resulting in her muffled speech. "What's the deal with you and Maya, anyway?" she inquired, curiosity peaking. "I can never tell what _your_ deal is because you never show any emotion. But _Maya…"_

"You don't think I know?" he snapped. "She's stuck in a daydream, coming back to this island. If she thinks we can 'rekindle' whatever pathetic attempt our relationship was, she's mistaken. I ended it two years ago," he broke the cookie in his hand, dusting his lap with crumbs. "I'll give her credit—she's not as annoying as she was. But she knows. It's not that I don't want to love her—I can't."

 _'I wish I could trust you. I wish you were a wise, kind friend instead of a gossiping acquaintance I've known for years but never particularly cared for.'_

He laughed in his usual one-beat chuckle. "Why is that? I really am the worst."

 **.:.**

The black and white film credits rolled.

Molly's eyes swept over Chase, but he was asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. His mouth was parted, head lolled to the side as his fist rested against his cheek.

She tossed a blanket over his form before stalking off to bed, a smile touching her lips.

* * *

 **A/N:** Years ago I had this phase of watching _Titanic_ obsessively because I was so upset over Jack's death (I don't know why I kept putting myself under more pain lmao) but my brother got so fed up with me he said he threw the DVD out of the window. How true that is though, I couldn't tell you...

Also, if you have watched the 1945 film _Brief Encounter_ you might be aware that the quotes I've used aren't in chronological order. This is intentional as I wanted it to fit with the characters dialogue.

On another note, thank you to all of you who have read up until now and have favourited / followed / reviewed. Much appreciated! :)

 **allyelle~**


	6. Matchmaker Molly

**.:. Six .:.**

 _ **Two Months Later**_

Chase slouched against the bar, cloth dipping and twisting around a glass to rid it of droplets. His eyes lazily skirted the room—Luke, Owen and Bo were huddled around a table, the results of their evening cluttered around them in the form of empty, foam rimmed pales.

The carpenter was absorbed in reciting one of his _awesome_ stories—as he stupidly phrased—hands waving as he talked. Soon enough, his hand whacked into his glass, amber liquid dripping from the wood. Luke's mouth twisted apologetically as he lifted his eyes to the bar. Chase's expression was murderous.

A whipping sound tore the air beside his right ear. He turned his head and his eyes were met with Kathy, tossing a towel over her shoulder like a cape.

"Don't worry," she winked, arm brushing his as she sashayed past. "I got it."

He opened his mouth to respond that good, she was doing her job for once, but the door swung open. The autumn breeze cascaded into the low-lighted bar, fluttering jackets and scarves in its wake. Molly's eyes instantly locked with his and she beamed, offering a small wave. His gaze shifted to her legs and he groaned, dragging a hand along his face.

Her tights were striped, like a bumblebee.

"Working hard, I see," she teased, throwing her weight down onto a stool. Her short hair flew forwards, wafting the scent of grass and cosmos.

"I think I've been wiping this glass for the past five hours," his eyebrows pinched as he looked down at the object of discussion. He stretched and placed it onto the shelf, aligning it with the rest, like a disciplined army. "Bit early for Halloween, aren't we?"

Her lips broke into a smile as she crossed a leg over the other, a flash of yellow and black lifting above the counter. "I think they're funny."

"I'm in stitches."

"You look it."

"Be careful, people might mistake this place for a circus," he drawled, but his eyes were focused on the rowdy table at the back of the bar.

Luke was wielding his axe and flexing his muscles while Kathy conversed with Owen, winding her ponytail around her fingers.

Chase faced her, eyebrows arched. "I know my charm is irresistible," he started while the farmer rolled her eyes. "But did you actually come here to order anything?"

Molly mused her hair, lips pulled between her teeth. "Yes... no."

"Well, which is it?"

"Do you have milkshakes?"

His lips slanted as he pushed his weight from the bar. "Strawberry, right?"

"The flavour of my heart," she swooned, hands clasped. "Ooh, could you add cream? And strawberry sauce? Make sure you add ice-cream. Like, _tons_ of it. Maybe pop a strawberry on top, too. You know, that's got me thinking. Why do people top things with cherries? Who started that? Strawberries are much nicer."

She cleared her throat at his silence, a large tub of ice-cream level with his elbow, milk and a punnet of strawberries to his other side. "Chesney? Are you getting this?"

"No. I think I'm finally learning how to drone you out."

He spun on his heel and clanked a tall glass under her nose. It was brimmed with candyfloss coloured mixture and swirls of cream. Drizzled in sauce was the loopy, barely eligible words of _'you're annoying'._

"No strawberry?"

Chase narrowed his eyes and dropped the rosy berry from a height. It sunk into the cream like a padded launch pad, his _endearing_ message caving into the sea of pink.

Molly sipped her milkshake. Yet with the amusement in Chase's eyes, she assumed she had some smeared on her upper-lip. She wiped it with the back of her hand.

"Have you ever read Emma?" she asked suddenly, feet tapping against the stool.

He raked his fingers though his hair. _"What?"_

"You know, as in Jane Austen."

"Oh, of course. I devoured it. An enthralling read."

"Well, the thing is..."

Her tone presented that of a child who had smashed their mother's favourite vase. Chase had grown accustomed to this voice with Maya—like when she mangled his blender because it slipped her mind that avocados possessed stones.

"I may have... _meddled,"_ she continued, eyes lowered to the empty glass, thumb wiping away condensation. _"Matchmaker,_ meddled. I knew that if I asked you, you would have said no—"

Chase was silent, lips pursed and eyes slit. Molly sheepishly peeped upwards and flushed, eyes wide and pleading.

"Oh, Chesney. Don't look at me like that! Look, it's only a date. One teeny-tiny date—"

 _"Date?"_ his voice rose, fist colliding against wood. Many heads snapped to the disruption and Chase cursed and averted his eyes.

"What!" Luke's voice carried over. "Chase, man! You have a _date?"_

He pointed his finger. "You'll have a date with _death_ if you don't zip it."

 _"Chase,"_ Hayden warned, folding his arms. "Watch your tongue."

"Whatever," he murmured under his breath. His attention flicked back to her and she shrunk in her seat. "So, Cupid. Who is it?"

"Kathy," she nudged her head in the direction of the waitress. The blonde was giggling at something Luke had slurred. "It's a double date, actually. You and Kathy and me and Owen."

He followed her gaze, lips marled into a frown. "Not my type."

"What _is_ your type?"

"Not you, if you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

He was quiet, cloth in possession as he wiped the bar down. Molly groaned and waved a hand in front of his face. He caught her wrist like swatting a pestering fly, letting it flop onto the counter.

"C'mon, Chesney," she whined. "Kathy's a catch. I'm doing _you_ a favour. Plus she has been nattering on for the past few weeks about how cute you are."

Molly tipped up her glass and peered through the bottom as she used it as a make-shift-microscope. Dregs from her milkshake dripped onto the wood while Chase exhaled at the endless mess.

"Nope, I don't see it," she shrugged, announcing her findings. "Puppies and bunnies are cute. But when I look at you, all I'm reminded of is one of those grouchy old men who yell at people to get off of their lawns. I think Kathy needs her retinas checked."

"Hilarious," his voice was slow and drawn out, snatching the glass from her hands. "I'll have you know, I'm quite the catch."

"Only for the woman who shares your interest in Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain."

She remembered his sarcasm.

Chase's lips curved into a half-smile. Yet when Kathy skipped up to the duo waving an order ticket, he straightened and cleared his throat, forging his face into nonchalance as he flicked the hair out of his eyes.

"Order up!" she exclaimed, smiling coyly as she extended the paper. Chase snatched it, glaring down at the scrawl, hardly sparing her a glance. "Luke's in crazy~ need of a lining in his stomach. There ain't no way that I'm cleaning up _vomit."_

"Drunk? Great. My favourite personality," he murmured, distractedly. His eyes lifted to Molly as his teeth held a hair-clip, fingers twisting tousled strands as he pinned them back. "You want anything?"

"No way. That milkshake was a _meal."_

Chase waved a hand in dismissal before venturing into the kitchen, fastening the strings on his apron. He crouched and opened a cupboard, heaving out a stack of pans. He passed the door on the way to the fridge and Molly's sing-song voice reached his ears.

"Hey, Kaths," he heard her say. "What's up?"

Her voice was a strained whisper. "Honey… how do you even _talk_ to that guy?"

Molly hummed in thought. "We don't," she concluded, and Chase felt himself frown as he placed the ingredients onto the marbled surface. "Our interactions are one-hundred-percent-sarcasm. Now that I think about it, it's making me question whether our friendship is real or just plain ironic."

Chase marched towards the doorway, head comically poking out. "Don't go around telling people we're _friends,"_ he warned, pointing a knife. "I have a reputation to uphold without it being tarnished by your stupid mouth."

She flashed him a mischievous smile.

"Oh, look at the time!" she gasped dramatically as she checked an invisible watch. "I should be going. I need to tend to my plants before it gets too dark. Well, see you tomorrow! Bye-bye!"

With a final glint of bumblebee stripes, the doors to the Brass Bar swung shut.

Kathy brightened, realising the invitation that her friend left her. She sloped forwards, chest exposed as she kicked one leg out behind her.

Chase wanted to kill Molly.

 **.:.**

Despite the newness of the season, leaves had begun in their process of decay. Green dissolved into red as multitudes drifted to the ground, littering the earth of Flute Fields. Chase cracked the picnic basket open—the one that he _generously_ provided through Molly's consistent nagging. It contained mason jars filled with orange juice and an array of sandwiches flavoured in the results of the farmer's efforts.

Molly's appearance appeared mundane—a blouse with rolled up sleeves and blue jeans while a thin red and white scarf was tossed around her neck. Yet when his eyes reached her feet, he exhaled and slid a hand across his mouth to stifle his laugh. The red glitter on her shoes sparkled in the sun—they were Dorothy shoes.

She sucked on a strawberry, the juice dribbling down her chin. "What's your opinion on strawberry ice-cream, Owen?"

"Nah. Not such a big fan of desserts," Owen waved off and Molly's jaw dropped, eyes horrified. The miner flinched at her reaction. "I guess I could take a small bite," he corrected, awkward laughter spilling from his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Most likely against my will, though."

"Oh. I see," she frowned, lowering her eyes.

"So, Molly," Owen resumed his efforts, smile strained. "Have you ever been mining?"

"No," she shook her head. "The thought of being trapped inside of a claustrophobic, dark, soot infested place never really appealed to me. I have plenty of time when I'm dead to enjoy a similar experience."

"Right," his mouth twitched uncomfortably as he knocked back alcohol in the flask.

"Chase," Kathy's elbow nudged his side. She curled her ponytail between her fingers and Chase grimaced, hoping blonde hair wouldn't wade into the sandwiches. "Have ya ever ridden a horse before? It's so much fun!"

"Nope," his tone was clipped; disinterested. "Can't see the appeal of riding around on one of those beasts. It's too high. I'd rather be rooted on the ground."

Her fingers slid from her hair, lips puckered into a pout. "That's too bad."

Molly and Owen were silent. Chase and Kathy were silent.

Chase's lips hovered over his orange juice and he met Molly's desperate gaze. Her eyes widened as a prompt, jabbing her head sideways in the direction of Kathy.

 _'What?'_ he mouthed.

 _'Talk to her!'_ she mouthed back.

When he failed to make any attempt to continue idle conversation, she rolled her eyes and did so herself.

"You know Kathy, you and Chase both like alcohol—wait—not that you're alcoholics or anything!" she hurriedly corrected, musing her hair. "It's just something I noticed…"

"You do?" Kathy spared a glance from her red-manicured nails. "What's your favourite drink?"

"Vodka."

She frowned. "In what cocktail?"

He frowned back. "Just vodka."

"Oh."

Silence.

"Owen," Kathy grabbed his attention, smiling sweetly. "Molls is starting a farm. Isn't that exciting?"

The man's smile was laboured. "Yeah, it is. Everything going well with it?"

"It is, thanks for asking," Molly replied, fiddling with the buckle on her shoe.

Silence.

"Autumn is perfect for sports," Owen commented, more to himself. His eyes were dazed as they followed the journey of an orange leaf. It floated from the tree canopy and settled on the basket. "Horse-riding is my favourite though. Heh."

"You like _horse-riding?"_ Kathy's voice was high-pitched in disbelief. _"Really?"_

"Course, Kath," Owen chuckled, the sound vibrating in his throat. "Didn't you know?"

"No! I didn't! How come I never see you over at the ranch?"

"I avoid going over there when I know you're there. I didn't think you liked me much."

Kathy giggled, pressing fingers against her lips. "You're a darn pain, sure. But only because you spill your drinks at the bar and I'm the one left cleaning up the mess."

"Do you wanna go for a ride?" Owen asked suddenly while Kathy beamed, clambering to her feet.

"Sure! Sounds like fun," she stepped forwards and slapped her palm against her forehead. "You guys wanna come too?"

"I'm good." Chase replied, relieved.

"No thanks, Kath. You two have fun."

She tossed a thankful smile over her shoulder as the duo rushed off towards the ranch.

Molly crossed her legs while Chase folded his arms behind his head and reclined against the blanket. A leaf landed on his nose and his face crinkled, hands swiping. He pursed his lips and leaned on his elbows.

"That went well," she exhaled, nibbling on one of the untouched sandwiches.

"Incredible," he whistled. "I can still taste the chemistry in the air."

"We need to make a pact. A treaty. A deal. An agreement—right now."

"Wow. I didn't know we were being _invaded."_

"Seeing Kathy and Owen… I mean, really. I would never have guessed. I thought she hated that guy…" she shrugged. "So what I'm saying is, we need to make a deal never, ever, ever to date. The thought of that makes me sick, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Like home insurance. Our friendship is a liability—I want compensation if you get drunk and decide to make a move."

"I hope you take offence to this—but if I _did_ get drunk, I would assume you were a man. Not that this view changes much from when I'm sober. The only reason I agreed to be _friends_ with you is because I knew I could never find you attractive."

"Phew, I'm glad we're on the same page. But for the record, if _I_ ever got drunk, I would mistake you for a girl. Those hairpins are a really manly addition to your image."

"I'll remind you of that next time you find a hair in your food."

"Okay, let's shake on it."

Chase sighed and rocked forwards into a sitting position. She extended her hand and he felt a wave of déjà vu.

"I'd rather _die_ than date you," he drawled as he shook her hand.

"Right back at you, Chesney."


	7. Happy Retirement!

**.:. Seven .:.**

 _ **Two Years Later**_

It was Chase's twenty-sixth birthday.

Endless streams of complaints had spewed from the chef's lips for the entirety of the week around the fact that he was now closer to thirty than twenty. Molly had tried to console him—that twenty-six was a cool age!—yet he moped further, reminding her that she was twenty-four and her understanding was limited. In an attempt of comfort, she opened her arms to hug him, but he leaped backwards and chased her from his kitchen with the clanging of pans.

Molly knew her efforts would be in vain. She lingered on Chase's doorstep, swiping a streak of flour from her cheek as her eyes lowered to the cake within her grasp. It was an orange cake—and in messy, smudged piping read: _'Happy Birthday Chesney!'_

Her hand lifted to knock, but the door whipped open to reveal Maya—pigtails frayed, mascara smudged and dress creased. Molly was stunned, lips parted and eyebrows raised at the shameless sight.

"M-Molly! Hi!"

Maya's eyes were saucers. Clearing her throat, she masked her embarrassment though cheeriness as her hand shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun.

"How are you doing? I was..." she craned her neck, searching for something inside of the house. Evidently, she failed in locating it as she exhaled with defeat. "I was just leaving," her smile faltered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

She bustled past her, shrouding her face in her hands.

"Hey—Maya—wait!" Molly dashed after her, hoping not to damage the cake in her pursuit. Maya stumbled to a halt and spun around, shoulders shaky from sobbing. "Are you... um, are you okay?"

"S-Sorry," she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, offering a pitiful smile. Black circled her eyes, but Molly wasn't about to voice her resemblance to a panda. "I don't want anyone to see me like this," her head snapped from side-to-side, checking for passers-by. "I look totally un-cute. I'm _so~_ embarrassed."

"Don't worry," Molly smiled reassuringly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I get embarrassed being seen with Chase all the time."

"Oh, Molly," her lip trembled. "Now you even _sound_ like him!"

Molly swallowed the guilt, shifting the cake in her arms. "But hey. At least I didn't roll my eyes, right?"

Maya's blue eyes were serious and searching. "Promise you won't fall in love with him, 'kay?"

She groaned. "Maya, he's my best friend. I don't—"

"Because all that meanie will do is hurt you—crush your heart into a million pieces!" She teetered on her heels, eyes glued to a spot above Molly's shoulder. "Oh no! Is that Anissa? See you at the inn, Molly!"

"Bye-bye," she raised her hand in a static wave as she watched her flouncy dress vanish around the corner.

 **.:.**

Without knocking, Molly barged into Chase's house.

The familiar scents of orange and cinnamon assaulted her nose, yet they were mingled with perfume. She spotted the chef instantly—he stood in his kitchen, arms folded over his bare chest, clad in tartan pyjama bottoms as he stared out of the window. He was lost in thought, lips pursed and eyebrows bowed as he followed the fluttering journey of a butterfly. The morning sun spotlighted him and haloed his hair, making it appear golden.

"You haven't gotten smarter with age, have you?" said Molly as she clanked the cake onto the dining table.

He flinched with surprise, twisting his neck.

"Is that the new birthday greeting these days? I wonder how that caught on."

Molly joined him at the window and glared up at him, flicking up her sunglasses.

"Oh my _god,"_ she gasped.

He whipped his head down, hair wild and tousled.

"What?" His voice was deep and heavy, yet it broke with sleep. Molly failed to take notice of how early it was.

"Is _that…?_ " Her finger jabbed his head, tone frightful, as though gesturing to a dinosaur in the distance.

 _"What?"_

"I think that's a _grey hair!"_ Molly exclaimed and ripped out one strand of—non-grey—hair.

"Ow, what the _hell!"_ his eyes blazed as he massaged his head.

"Don't _'what the hell'_ me!" Molly fumed, hands-on-hips. "You're an _idiot,_ Chesney! You know that Maya loves you—you can't keep using her when you're lonely or bored! It's not _fair!"_

A humourless sound formed in his throat as he slumped down into a dining chair.

"You know, it dawned on me the other day—" his speech was cut abruptly as he eyed the cake under his nose. "Huh. What's this?"

"I'm no culinary expert, but by the looks of things, a cake," Molly clapped her hands, beaming. "Happy birthday!"

She thought it would be fitting for party poppers to explode and a sea of balloons to drop from the ceiling. Yet Chase ignored her, their silence filled with the faint twitters of birds while the light distributed from the window warmed her arm.

Molly watched him intently as he scooped the 'C' from 'Chesney' with his finger and sucked it. His lips twisted into a grimace. "This is a crime. It should be illegal for something to be _this_ bad. Did you use lard instead of butter for the buttercream?"

She exhaled hopelessly and smoothed her hair. "Of course I didn't!"

Molly knew Chase would never entertain her culinary practices—or _trust_ them, for a better word.

His hatred begun a year ago when he contracted the flu and was bed-ridden for a week. Kathy covered his shift while Molly became the bar's temporary waitress. She packed a suitcase and camped out on his couch for the duration to look after him. He was ungrateful and stubborn and complained. Yet Molly ignored him and fetched tissues, damp flannels and even attempted to make chicken soup.

It wasn't _her_ fault that it slipped his mind to label expiration dates.

She deduced that the horrid smell of the chicken was some of the chef's strange seasoning. But a dosage of food poisoning paired with the flu was enough to land him in the care of Jin for another week.

Suffice to say, he wasn't happy with her.

A few weeks passed without mention and Chase offered to cook for her. Not suspecting anything, Molly continued to chew through her food. Bursts of laughter and swift glances were tossed her way until he asked: _'so, Dolly. How do you like the food?'_

The food was _awful._ Molly thought that he must be trying a new dish, and as always, using her as the guinea pig. But before she could undertake her _negative_ feedback, her stomach turned. She caught a final glimpse of his smirking face before she sprinted into the bathroom to puke her guts out.

"I don't care, anyway," Molly continued, eyes locked on the cake. "I knew you would hate it. I made it to cheer you up. I was considering writing _'Happy Retirement!'_ or _'You've Had A Great Life!'_ to enhance that thirty-fear of yours."

Chase rolled his eyes and pushed the cake aside.

"Like I was saying before I was interrupted by this _monstrosity_ —it dawned on me that I'm not getting any younger. Sure, there's been countless girls in the city, just stupid one-night-stands that I can't even remember. But Maya—as annoying as she is—is the only one who stuck around and dealt with me. I don't like conversing with people—but I don't like loneliness twice as much. Maybe Maya is all I can have a future with. Maybe I should just accept it."

"Do you love her?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Molly's eyes rolled to the ceiling in the hope that she would discover her friend's brain.

"That has _everything_ to do with it!" Her voice was shrill, hands tossed into the air with exasperation. "You can't have a relationship with somebody unless you love them! It's not only selfish, but also sad—it would never work—love is one of the foundations to a relationship!"

Chase jerked up, knocking his chair backwards. "What right do you have to give me relationship advice?" he snapped. "Your first boyfriend cheated on you and Calvin is never even here. If either of them _'loved you',_ where are they now?"

Molly's hands curled into fists.

"Come and find me at the bar when you're in a better mood."

With that, she stormed out of his house.

But she didn't fail in hearing the splatting sound her cake created as it made contact with the tile.

 **.:.**

It was evening and Molly sat at the bar, swinging her legs to entertain her boredom.

Her fingers tugged her necklaces. One was a shark-tooth which Calvin had brought back from his travels. The other was the one Chase had presented her with for her birthday the previous summer. It was a silver rabbit pendant with an initial tag. Molly inquired about the 'I' initial and he revealed that it stood for _'Insane'_ —yet Molly liked to believe it stood for _'Interesting'_ instead.

Her thoughts were disrupted with a dragging sound. She lowered her gaze to the pot of home-made strawberry ice-cream. Underneath the dish was a note—the paper used for taking orders.

 _I'm the worst. I'm sorry._

Was written in Chase's recognisable cursive. She caught a glimpse of peach-hair as the kitchen doors swung shut. She smiled to herself.

Molly finished her ice-cream when the chef reappeared, leaning his elbows against the bar. His eyes were cross-eyed as he looked up to his hair, fingers swiping back loose strands.

"This must be your worst birthday ever," she exhaled, offering a half-smile. "I'm sorry, Chesney. Can I make it up to you?"

"I want to see what this hype is about."

"Hype?"

"There's one of this town's stupid festivals this weekend, right? Come with me," he cleared his throat, eyebrows pinched. "Strictly as friends."

Her lips parted in reply, yet the arms snaking around her waist halted her words. Scents of must and spice reached Molly's nose, stubble rubbing against her jaw.

"Molls," a husky voice whispered. "I'm back."

"Calvin!"

Molly bounced from the stool and threw her arms around his neck. He staggered backwards from her sudden attack, one hand caught in her hair while the other rested against her lower-back.

"You're certainly glad to see me," his chest vibrated with laughter. "Can't say that I mind."

"How was your trip?" she tilted her head back, lips stretched. "I bet it was really interesting, right? You even look a little suntanned. Was it hot over there? Did you meet any tribes? I heard that sometimes tribes over there still keep to cannibal traditions. Did you have to negotiate for the preservation of your arm? If you did, I'm glad. It would have been quite a shock if you returned without a limb!"

Calvin's mouth was slanted in amusement, head shaking as he ruffled her hair. "Boy, you're as enthusiastic as ever."

"Tell me about it," Chase drawled, staring intently at the object he was attacking with a cloth. "Though I wouldn't have called it _'enthusiastic'"._

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," Calvin begun, flitting his eyes from Chase to Molly. He placed his hat onto the bar, earning a frown from Chase who was presumably thinking about hygiene. "But I was planning to go to the Firefly Festival myself. It's an ancient custom, which provides an excellent opportunity for research. Sorry to steal her away, but it'd be a treat to spend time with you, Molls."

His blue eyes crinkled with the makings of a smile.

Molly and Calvin had been dating for a year. But he was constantly away from the island, traveling and going on adventures. He wanted to see the world—yet she was never invited to see the world with him.

Her attention drifted to Chase, eyes asking for permission. After all, he had asked first.

His jaw was tight as he stretched and put the glass away, avoiding her stare. Yet when he faced her, his expression was blank.

"I didn't want to go anyway," he murmured, but his voice was edged. Molly's lips twisted apologetically. "What? Go with him," he insisted, waving his cloth in dismissal. "I don't care."

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know."

Breezy laughter fell from her lips as she turned to Calvin, interlacing their fingers. "Sure. Of course we can go."

Her eyes fluttered shut as he kissed her. Chase made a strangled sound of disgust.

"Please, my _eyes._ Save me from the spectacle of the two of you exchanging saliva."

Molly sloped backwards and flashed the chef a grin. "Shut up and get the two of us some drinks. A strawberry—"

"I know what _you_ want. Anything strawberry. What does _he_ want?"

Calvin arched an eyebrow about being addressed in the third person, but made no comment.

"Blackberry cocktail should do the trick."

"Just my specialty."

Chase stormed into the kitchen, the door whacking the wall with his irritated force. Molly flinched at the sound.

"Don't have the funds to replace the wall, Chase!" Hayden's stern voice carried over and curses leaked from the kitchen.

"Sorry. I know he's kind of rude," Molly mused her hair, smile sheepish. "I would love to say he isn't always like this, but he really is. He's the worst."

"It's you I've come to see. No one else matters."

"You know, I may not be able to _see you,"_ Chase's drawl flooded from the window splitting the kitchen to the bar. "But I can still _hear you._ Keep it up if you like vomit in your drinks."

However Molly's attention was soon diverted from Calvin and Chase's mocking gags by an excited squeal. Swiveling on her stool, her eyes met Kathy—who appeared to be on a date with Owen on her night off—posture erect and hands clasped over her mouth as the miner knelt on one knee, extending a box.

"Oh, Honey! Of course I'll marry you!"

Molly's lips split into a wide, toothy grin. But it faltered as Chase slammed the two drinks down. The bottoms ringed from spillage.

"Too much _'love'_ in the air tonight," his mouth pulled in distaste. "I'm choking."

While Chase's eyes were cold, Calvin's were trained on the happy couple—bright and warm and crinkled at the corners. Butterflies danced in Molly's stomach.

Perhaps it was the influence of the cocktail, the so-called _'love in the air'_ or the spark in Calvin's eyes—but Molly had the sudden yearning to be the one in Kathy's position—to know that she was finding her happily-ever-after.


	8. Tickled Pink

**.:. Eight .:.**

 _ **Two Years Later**_

A wave rolled and crashed.

Molly circled her ankle, her fuchsia-pedicured toes flashing in the water. Chase had upturned the hem of his trousers as the sea lapped against his feet, the hair curling down his neck and overflowing his collar irritating him. It was spring—yet the sun shone brilliantly. Molly appeared on his doorstep at the ungodly hour of nine, demanding that he spend the day with her.

Something was bothering her, because she didn't smile.

"I've wasted _three years_ of my life with him!"

Her shrill exclamation shattered the tranquil atmosphere. The seagulls that pecked the area scattered and took flight. Her fingers were latched around a pebble, and for a moment, Chase thought she was going to stone him to death—her eyes were enraged. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he held as she tossed it out to sea. Clearly she had been hoping that it would skim the surface, but it sunk down to the bottom with a splash and a plop.

Chase fumbled in the sand for a pebble and effortlessly skimmed it across the water. Her lips pulled into a scowl.

"Everything exploded last night," Molly began, fingers tracing patterns in the sand. "I told him what I wanted—to get married, to start a family… he was silent and removed his hat. It was like someone had died, I'm telling you. You know, that face someone pulls when they deliver bad news? That's the look he was giving me."

Chase lolled forwards, mentally preparing himself for one of her lengthy speeches about Calvin—not something he wanted to partake in on his day off.

"I'm surprised that guy didn't fix you with one of his smoulders," he joked, twisting his head to see if she had cracked a smile—she hadn't.

"I never knew what was so great about him," he exhaled, tucking a long strand behind his ear. "I mean, god. Did you see how dirty his hat was? I wouldn't be surprised if someone ended up finding a bird eating tarantula in there."

"He was _charismatic,_ dummy," she shoved his side, a repressed smile playing on her lips. "Something which _you_ don't have."

His eyes rolled into the back of his head. "Let's be real, Dolly. We both know it isn't my _dazzling_ personality and good manners which win girls over. Charisma and good looks do me just fine." He smirked in the direction of the sea.

"I really wonder how I've managed not to become _enraptured_ by these traits of yours for six years," Molly humoured him before she continued with the story. "So then he says: 'Molls, I don't want what you want and you don't want what I want. I don't want to settle down.' Then I told him: 'well you clearly don't want me!' And you know what he did? _Sighed._ What sort of response is that?"

"Clearly not the one you were hoping for," Chase quipped, turning over a pebble in his hands.

"You're certainly right about that! After I went to bed last night I heard my front door close. He'd gone—disappeared. His stuff wasn't there either—vanished, like smoke. It was as though he had never been there in the first place. I suppose he hasn't. He was always away.

"So then I go to the inn—it's the only place I thought of to go and they told me they had seen him boarding a boat."

Molly was silent for a while, the rush of waves and the squawking of seagulls reaching his ears. She inhaled sharply, but when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

"He left me, Chesney. Do you think that I love people too much? Maybe that's why they always leave."

"I think that's better than not being able to love at all."

He tossed a pebble into the sea—but this time, it sank.

 **.:.**

It was late afternoon when the duo returned from the beach.

Orange light spilled through the farmhouse windows, creating long shadows like splashes of Indian ink. The phone was pressed against her ear and she heard the faint sounds of Chase pottering around in his kitchen—clanging pans, the shutting of cupboard doors and the hissing of the gas cooker. She imagined him performing a balancing act with the phone as he multi-tasked with his cooking.

He cursed suddenly and Molly had the inkling that he had just burnt or cut himself.

"You're distracting, you know that?" His tone was a low grumble and a smacking sound followed—a sore finger against lips. "You ring me at the most inconvenient times. I just got back from spending the entire day with you. Have you ever considered that I'd want some Dolly-free time, huh?"

"That's not very nice," her lips puckered and she pulled the blanket up to her chin. A tub of Chase's ice-cream situated on the coffee table while the television played _Pretty In Pink._ "Aren't friends supposed to be _supportive?_ I've just been through a _break-up,_ you know!"

He exhaled in resignation. "No tears for failed relationship number two, then? I'm shocked. I'm tempted to come over and force feed minestrone soup down your throat to promote a normal reaction."

"How kind. But I actually feel fine. Weird." She curled ice-cream onto the spoon and shovelled it into her mouth, creating muffled speech. "You working tonight?"

"What are you saying? Try _swallowing_ first."

"Are you _working_ tonight?" She irritably repeated, mouth empty.

"Unless I make the unlikely transformation into a firefly for the festival, no."

"Oh, darn. I forgot about that. Are you going?"

"Yes, Dolly. _By myself._ That's my idea of a good time."

"Well, do you want me to come with you?"

"What?"

"Are you _deaf?"_

"I wish I was. Your voice grates on my nerves."

"Fine!" Molly huffed. "Forget I asked!"

"God, whatever. Come with me then."

"Aw, I don't know if I feel up to it now."

"Ice-cream?"

"Done. I'll _buzz_ over to your place for eight."

"That was _terrible._ Fireflies don't even buzz."

"Ooh! Chesney the _buzzkill_ is on my case!"

"Wear something dark."

"Um, why? Goth fetish?"

"Close, but no. So blood isn't visible when I inevitably _murder_ you tonight."

The line went dead.

 **.:.**

To humour him, Molly dressed in black.

It was a challenge—her wardrobe consisted of very little black and she instantly knew why. It made her feel miserable, as though she was getting ready to attend a funeral. She tended to stick to bright, sunny colours. They lifted her mood.

She believed that if Chase was a colour, he'd be black. When she thought about him, the colour that floated to mind was violet, but that was only because of the influence of his eyes. No, black was Chase—secretive and moody and stubborn.

Molly critically studied her reflection in the mirror. The lack of colour made her look dreary. She pinned a flower-pin into her hair and looped a fuchsia scarf around her neck. Her palm slapped her forehead. Why was she fussing about her appearance? It was only Chase and it would be dark.

He had seen her in countless numbers of questionable fashion choices—even in her underwear, although accidental. He'd fallen asleep on her couch and the following morning after Molly emerged from taking a shower, it slipped her mind that he still occupied the house. He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, eyes raking her frame. She screamed and locked herself in the bathroom until he left. When she peeked her head out, there was a note on the floor.

 _Sometimes I forget you're a girl. The mistake is duly noted. In my brain._

 _P.S. black?_

Molly flushed at the memory and pushed open her door, the evening breeze cooling her cheeks. She ambled down to Flute Fields and caught sight of Chase outside of his house, slouched against the fence in his front yard. His head was tilted away from her, pale strands fluttering in the night air. He looked like he belonged in a film static.

"Need some company?" said Molly, waving.

Chase snapped his head towards her, removing his weight from the fence. He adjusted a basket in his arms.

"That clip," he prodded her head, voice quiet and distracted. "I've never seen it before."

Her stomach sunk and she pouted. "You don't like it?"

He shrugged non-committedly and walked ahead, hands stuffed into his pockets. "I didn't say that."

She quickened her pace to match his strides. "Envious, then? You do seem to have a clip fetish," she giggled. "Though I have to say," she stood on her tiptoes and pulled at his peach-strands that were rarely freed from their clips. "You look better without your hair clips. You look friendlier—more approachable."

"Stop it," he drawled. "You're making me blush."

They reached the grassy plane where numerous couples gathered before the waterwheel—Gill and Luna, who appeared to be arguing—a blushing Candace and a coy Julius—and a loved up Kathy and Owen, whose wedding was scheduled in a few months.

Chase's eyes burned her skin, yet when she turned her head, he was looking straight ahead.

"I was mad."

Confusion knit her eyebrows. "Mad?"

"You know," his lips slanted, as though recalling a bad memory. "At how you went to the festival with Calvin."

Molly batted his arm. "Oh, Chase. You should have said so! I totally would have gone with you."

He arched an eyebrow, voice doubting. "C'mon. No you wouldn't."

 _"I would_. Sure, I was infatuated with Calvin at the time. But you always make me laugh. Like, even your face. It's funny."

"What," he sounded faintly amused. "You'd rather laugh than be in love?"

"Can't I have both?"

"No."

"Mean," she declared as she pulled a loose thread on her scarf. "I wish I went with you."

Chase exhaled. "He was your boyfriend. I'm your friend, and friends don't have those kind of rights."

 _"'Rights',"_ Molly mimicked with the rolling of eyes. "Is that a signed declaration? You'll have to show it to me sometime."

He frowned. "What? It's true. If I insisted to go with you, he would have thought I was making a move or something."

Molly gave him a weak smile. "I suppose. I'm sorry about that birthday, by the way. I hope your twenty-eighth last week was better."

"Miles. Will I ever _not_ find a use for that personalised apron?"

She laughed.

The apron that she oh-so-generously bought for him was vivid pink with _'you don't have to kiss me, but if you annoy me, you can kiss my ass'_ printed on the front. He was scheduled to work last week and through hers, Hayden's and Kathy's peer pressure, he wore it during his shift. Molly was surprised that he didn't 'accidentally' set it on fire.

Nevertheless, she was glad that it wasn't a re-enactment of two years ago. The idea of Chase and Maya made her uneasy—he treated her terribly. Molly hoped that she had moved on from him by now, considering she left the island a year and a half ago. Maya may have been hopeless at cooking, but she was proficient at tasting and judging food.

A popular cooking show in the city was seeking judges and she was immediately snatched up. It aired on their televisions occasionally and Chase would barge into her house with snacks in tow and they would watch it. He complained endlessly, but his eyes were soft—proud.

Molly knew that Chase didn't _love_ Maya—but she believed that his cold heart allowed rare exceptions to whom he _cared_ for.

"You love the apron that much I bet you sleep with it."

Chase's lips were curved, a crease formed on one side. "Obviously. What else keeps my bed warm at night?"

Mayor Hamilton began his rounds of handing out lotus-shaped lanterns. They were delicate, each one differing in colour as they glowed warmly with the light of the fireflies. The stoutly man's eyes bulged when he reached them, hearty laughter tearing through the silence as he held his protruding stomach.

"Molly, Chase!" he clapped his meaty hands, grin reaching his ears. "I say, it's about time!"

Molly's cheeks blazed at the misunderstanding, hands waving frantically. Meanwhile Chase groaned, apparently bored. "Oh, no! We're _just_ friends!"

"For now," Hamilton winked and handed them a pink lantern between themselves, disappearing to mingle with the other residents.

"Pink," Chase was unimpressed, eyes narrowed at the object within her grasp. "What's with this colour? The apron and now this."

"What can I say? It matches your _eyes."_

 **.:.**

"I don't think about this ancestor stuff," Chase murmured as they stood in the riverbank, eyes following the journey of the dimming lantern.

"Me neither," Molly exhaled. "We probably should, though. We say this now, but it's like when somebody dies and everyone's like—'oh, I wish I got to know them better!' But if they had their chance again, they never would. A useless promise of guilt to make ourselves feel better."

Chase hummed in agreement while her gaze traveled to the surrounding couples—huddled, exchanging sweet-nothings and light kisses. A noise of disgust formed in Chase's throat as he shadowed her point of interest.

"God, it's sickening. It's like I'm stuck on a blasted love island."

"Don't be such a cynic. I think it's cute," she smiled and pulled her eyes away. "I hope I have a date for the next festival."

He rolled his eyes. "Optimistic."

Molly rounded on him. "Hey! I'll have you _know_ that I'm a _catch._ For somebody, anyway."

"I pity the unlucky man who has to keep up with that ice-cream diet of yours."

She brightened, ogling the basket under his arm. "Speaking of ice-cream! You brought it, right? I hope you did. You might make me cry if you say you forgot."

"Like you say," the corners of his lips quirked. "I only remember the _oddest_ things."

 **.:.**

Golden sand sieved through Molly's fingers as Chase unpacked the contents of the basket. He extended a pot of ice-cream when Molly noticed the bright red burn which swelled his finger. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"You did burn yourself, I knew it." She lodged the pot into the sand and clawed through her purse in search of a plaster—after all, one never knows the temperament of their shoes. "Here, give me your finger."

Chase eyed her with apprehension before sighing, allowing her to take his hand. Molly expected him to brush off her concern and insist that he could treat himself—yet he didn't. Her gaze wandered over his hand—it was quite a bit larger than hers, but his fingers were slender. Creamy skin that would have once been soft was hardened by callouses from numerous cooking incidents, along with the faint traces of thin, white scars.

"Is my hand _that_ attractive?" he drawled, twitching his fingers comically, like wild piano keys. "Well, you can kiss it better, if you'd like."

Molly lifted her eyes and smiled coyly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"It's my only dream."

 _"Funny._ Now just hold still."

She peeled the plaster's skin, revealing the sticky underneath and wrapped it around Chase's finger.

"Dolly. You've got to be _joking."_

"What?"

"The plaster. It's _pink."_

Short laughter tumbled from her lips. "So it is. What's wrong with pink? I like pink. Pink is the colour of strawberry flavoured things. Besides, you suit pink—like I said before, they match your eyes. Have I ever told you? I've probably told you. But I've always thought that you had pretty eyes. They're unusual."

Chase's lips parted with surprise, running a hand along his face. He rocked forwards, curls swinging madly. He was close, lips quirked to reveal a flash of teeth, eyes teasing. "What, have you finally acknowledged my good looks?"

"Yeah, right."

A humourless laugh caught in her throat as she hid her reddening complexion in the equally rosy dessert.


	9. Rude Awakenings

**.:. Nine .:.**

 _ **Two Months Later**_

It was three in the morning when the phone rang on Chase's nightstand.

Inhaling sharply, he jolted—heart thumping wildly. With his mind cloudy with sleep, he convinced himself that he still resided in the city, one of his nightmares of Maya igniting his workplace becoming reality with the dreaded call from the police station. The phone continued with it's relentless chirps and he frowned, eyes meeting the green photo frame.

Molly stuck it there— _literally_ super-gluing it to the wood. Her reasoning was that friends apparently harbored photographs of one another in their respective houses. Chase deemed this another trait of her incurable insanity and left her to it. The image recalled a summer's day a few years back in her farmland. Her cow—which she dumbly named Paris—licked her cheek and her face froze mid-laughter, spotlighting the gap between her front teeth while her freckled nose crinkled.

He knew the farmer would be on the other end of the line.

Only she would have the nerve to call at such an ungodly hour.

Eyes closed, he fumbled in the dark and answered it with complaints and insults on the tip of his tongue—yet when her croaky voice and the unmistakable sound of sniffling reached his ears, he exhaled with defeat.

"S-Sorry to call you so late. It's just that I—"

Her feeble explanation was cut through the eruption of loud, gasping sobs.

"Are you _crying?"_

 _Stupid_ —of course she was. That or she was displaying the signs of a fatal asthma attack.

Her reply was defensive. _"N-No!"_

 _"Really?"_

The line was silent for a beat before a reel of quiet whimpers resounded.

"Y-Yes," she whined, voice nasal from her blocked nose.

"What happened?"

Chase flicked on the sidelight and grimaced at the harsh alteration. He untangled the sheets from his limbs and stood, dragging his wrist over his eyes.

"He—He's getting," she sniffled, voice cracking. _"Married."_

"Who?" he inquired—again, _stupid_ —the lateness of her phone call not in sync with his brain.

She created a noise of frustration and he knew her voice would be shrill—hysterical. _"Calvin! Who else!"_

Chase groaned and flinched from her ear-splitting proclamation. "God, I get it. I'll be right over, so quit drowning in your tears. Frankly, I don't want to build a _raft_ to get into your house."

He punched the red button.

 **.:.**

Chase shrugged on a jumper to ward off the autumn chills, still clad in pajama bottoms and slippers when he knocked on her door.

She answered immediately, the familiar scents of floral potpourri and nail-polish wafting his nose. Molly's lips curved in pitiful gratefulness, her fingers pulling a scrunchie which bobbed her scalp, wispy strands flying around her red, splotched face. She wore a baggy t-shirt and striped cotton shorts and her obnoxious fluffy-pink-bunny-slippers.

He hated those slippers—she reminded him of big-foot when she wore them.

"Thanks for coming over... Sorry, I forget you work late..."

Chase shrugged, lips quirked into a half-smile. "I'm here now. It would be more trouble to go back home."

Molly stepped aside to let him in, pacing the room while Chase took residence on the couch. The rug creased between her feet, her living room the epitome of organised-clutter. It reminded Chase of the place were psychic readings were conducted or perhaps were hippies vacated to gain spiritual awakening—everything was adorned in patterns and tassels and glitter.

"C'mon, Dolly," he pressed her silence. "Don't spare me of your narrations now."

"So Calvin called from Rome," she began, her floorboards creaking. "We exchanged all the usual pleasantries—'how are you doing?' 'Great, how are you?' 'Great'. Then we were silent for a while, and of course my mind went into overdrive—why was he calling me? I was repeating a mantra in my head—'I'm over him, I don't care, I dodged a bullet' as Kathy would say.

"Then he was rambling on about his research in Rome. The Colosseum and the ruins and all that interesting jazz. I felt inferior. He was going on all these adventures, and I'm stuck on a tiny island running a tiny farm. So I just gave minimal responses—'sounds amazing' and 'glad you're having fun'.

"We lapsed into silence again. His voice took on that tone—you know, that one he used last time?—a wary, pitiful tone. God! I wanted to _slap_ him through the _phone!_ He said—'Molls, I have some news' so I played along—'oh, what's that?' and then he dropped the bomb.

"He's getting _married!"_

She twirled and faced him, hands curled into fists around a tissue. Her eyes were expressive—wide and angry and stunned. She threw the tissue over her shoulder and Chase silently offered her another. Her fingers bunched her hair as she continued.

"She's an archaeologist. Her name is _Phoebe._ And guess what? He _just_ met her! We only ended it two months ago! She's supposed to be the rebound, not the _one!"_

Molly flopped her weight down into the couch while he used his thumb to swipe the stray tears.

"See, I always thought Calvin was just fickle—a drifter, going wherever the wind took him. He always told me—'I don't want to get married and settle down. Commitment just isn't in my nature.'"

Her hands raised in exasperation. "What a _hypocrite!_ So then I realised… It's _my_ fault. He didn't love me. He never told me—not once. He wasn't _against_ marriage... he... he was just against marrying _me."_

Crying resumed, shoulders hunched and shaking as she buried her face in her hands.

Chase had to that admit that comforting wasn't his strongest point. He was confused as to why she thought of him as the first person to call—surely Kathy would provide more womanly understanding. His hand lifted inches from her arm—yet he shook his head and hooked his lips, fingers curling into his palm. Perhaps he should get her some ice-cream and tell her to get over it. But something told him that maybe that was a little harsh.

"You're saying that if he ditched this other girl—Philly, or whatever—you'd take him back? I didn't think that you were that stupid."

Her head snapped to him, lips parted with surprise.

"N-No! Of course I wouldn't! He… he didn't like desserts. He hated pudding. He hated it so much you would think that he ran into the pudding phantom in one of those tombs he explores."

He poked her forehead. "There's no future for you in somebody who doesn't appreciate the finery of pudding."

A combination of a laugh and a sob formed in her throat and in the next moment, she tossed her arms around his neck. Chase startled and inhaled sharply—they never hugged.

"Sorry," her breath warmed his neck. "I know we don't hug, but... I'm just so sad."

Chase exhaled and wrapped his arms around her, patting her back awkwardly. "I'll... make an exception."

"Why is your jumper so itchy?" she murmured, sobs lessening.

His chin rested on the top of her hair. "Maybe it has an unscratchable scratch."

She blinked and wet eyelashes batted his skin. She was crying—again. "H-How sad!"

He rolled his eyes, hands ceasing their clumsy patting. "You'll get over it—the Calvin thing, I mean. I don't know about this jumper. It's always been itchy."

"Chesney?" she questioned, tugging a straggly thread. "Could you tell me a story? I want to forget about him. For awhile, at least."

His eyebrows arched, lips pulled upwards in amusement. "A story? God, Dolly. You're such a kid."

"Are... are you calling me a _goat?"_

"Whatever, fine." He exhaled and gently pushed her backwards, hands locked on her shoulders as he forged his face into mock-seriousness. "It was a dark and stormy night..."

She laughed coarsely, tears almost a forgotten memory. "No, no. Be serious."

"C'mon, Dolly. You're the hotshot for storytelling. I haven't got the foggiest where you'd think I'd be able to tell a good story."

Molly crossed her legs on the couch, fist resting against her cheek while her wispy ponytail lolled to the side.

"Tell me," she hummed in contemplation. "Tell me how you met Maya."

Chase frowned. "Maya? Why?"

She shrugged non-committedly and grabbed a cushion, fiddling with the tassels. Chase sighed and strolled into the kitchen to grab the bottle of vodka he stored in one of her top cupboards. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he gathered two mismatched glasses and made his way back into the living room. He clanked them onto the coffee table and sloshed—arguably, too much—colourless liquid into them.

Molly took a glass and eyed it warily. "Is the story that outrageous that we need a bottle of vodka? Oh, boy. Do I feel a sense of déjà vu."

He knew that Molly detested vodka; she couldn't understand why he liked it so much. She once said that it tasted like a mixture of deodorant and bleach. Chase was painfully aware that she bordered on insanity, but if she conducted this comparison first hand then he may have to put a halt on story-telling and begin a stomach pump.

But to him, vodka didn't taste of much; he liked it because it was refreshing. "You know in my _old age_ that I like any excuse to have vodka."

"Is this the beginnings of an _addiction?_ Don't make me call Alcoholics Anonymous, Chase."

She sounded like herself and his lips slanted into a modest quirk.

"Once upon a time," he began with evident sarcasm. "Ten years ago, I was in my last year of high school and was working in a dingy, little cafe. It was a pathetic place. Sold about three different types of sandwiches—hardly gourmet. Anyways, there was this girl who'd come into the cafe daily—Maya. She had these big, over-sized glasses at the time—"

Chase's attention drifted down to Molly's feet were her obnoxious slippers were located and he wondered why the both of them insisted on looking like complete imbeciles.

"She still looked twelve even though we were both eighteen at the time," he continued, swilling the liquor in the glass while Molly listened keenly, only taking sips from her drink when he did—and he did so quite often. "Still a weird, annoying kid even then. She would always have this blue, spotted bag with her, always with her nose in a book. I assumed that she was going to university, you know? Well, she was in a rush this one day and left one book behind. I wasn't curious—it was obstructing me from cleaning tables. It was a recipe book. Like I said, weird kid.

"I tucked it around back to give it to her the next time I saw her. We didn't talk; she was just another customer and I don't particularity go out of my way to make conversation. I only remembered her because she would always ask for special requests with the food. It was a refreshing change."

"You know," Molly flashed him a coy smile, tapping her nails against the glass. "You're a pretty good rambler yourself when you want to be."

"Another trait to add to the ever-growing number."

He topped up their glasses before resuming.

"So she came back in the next day and I handed it to her. She looked embarrassed. I didn't know why—it's not like it was an M rated goddamn recipe book, you know? She thanked me and thought it would be a good idea to strike up a conversation. I was forced to be polite—don't get me wrong, my politeness consisted of minimal responses. I'd already had warnings and complaints about my attitude at this point and I needed the job.

"I'd unwillingly learnt that she wasn't from the city—she came to go to high school. Cooking was in her family and she was studying to become a chef. But nothing was going right for her, she had said. I assumed that with the amount of studying she had done she couldn't be half bad so I struck up a deal. I'd teach her what I knew and in return she could give me critiques on my food. Obviously, after the first time she managed to burn water, I realised that she was a hopeless cause, yet still I continued to cook for her. I suppose her company turned into a habit over the years."

"What about her name? You remembered her name, didn't you?"

The tone of her voice surprised him—it resounded sadness.

"Are you for real? No, I called her 'Mia' or 'Four-Eyes' for about three years. Maybe you'll be a 'Molly' eventually."

Her eyes brightened and she fought a smile, lowering her eyes.

 **.:.**

An hour ticked by and they eventually emptied the bottle of vodka between themselves.

Chase wasn't particularity drunk—he handled his alcohol well. But he did feel his judgement slightly jaded and a pounding in his head. However this could also stem from being awoken by a crying girl at stupid-o-clock.

Conversely, Molly was another story.

Her eyes were glazed and unfocused from intoxication, the salt from her tears rimming them red and swollen. The happiness which temporarily consumed her from his story had faded after a few more glasses, returning to her state of despondency.

Presently she was crying— _again_ —small hands viced onto the material of his jumper while she buried her face into his neck. Chase's arms snaked around her, holding her firmly as sobs shook her frame. He was unsure of what else he could do—he wanted to drag Calvin from the myriad of places he roamed and demand an apology for making him pick up the pieces from her fragile heart.

Molly was being _annoying._ That was the thing with her—she was too emotional for her own good. She talked too much, she cared too much, and now she had _drank_ too much. But Chase couldn't leave her like this. He supposed—like Maya—Molly had also become a habit over the years. Habits are hard to shake—especially once you're invested.

"Chase," she murmured, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me?"

Her question ached with sincerity that sadness stirred inside of him. She was waiting for an answer—two large, pleading, teary brown eyes.

How could he answer such a question?

But he didn't have to—as in the next moment, her lips were on his.

Her movements were rushed and clumsy and desperate. Chase froze as his hands fumbled for her shoulders. He pushed her back, eyes riddled with confusion. A million questions swarmed his brain—instead, all that left his lips was the breathless observation of—

"Your kiss tastes of liquor."

Molly's eyes were lidded while an unsuited lazy and drunken smirk played her lips. She straddled him and he gulped, hands awkwardly resting on her waist. It felt foreign and wrong holding her like this, bunching the fabric of her t-shirt—yet they had moved on their own accord.

Her tongue grazed her lower-lip. "Lucky you like it so much."

Chase implored all lecherous thoughts from his mind, scrunching his eyes closed and setting his jaw. "Stop—you'll regret this in the morning."

Her nose trailed his cheek and her lips were at his ear. "But it's not morning, is it?"

But it was—approximately five if her wall-clock was accurate. Alcohol had tampered with their sense of time, their reality disfigured and warped—a bubble with no consequences.

"Dolly—" a moan caught in his throat as her lips stung his neck. Her fingers curled the soft hair on his nape until they slowly wormed down to the hem of his jumper, her touch cold against skin. They nimbly pulled the string on his pajamas and he released a shuddery breath—his resistance was slipping.

She sloped forwards, her chest pressed up against him. Her thumbs traced invisible patterns on his cheeks as she held his face in her hands, foreheads touching. Her lips parted, voice pleading and slow, yet only a whisper. "Please, Chase."

He could hear his heartbeat.

She rolled her hips and he caved.


	10. Feelings and Anemones

**.:. Ten .:.**

Molly's head throbbed and her vision swayed. Her fingers grazed the indent where he had slept, his scent tethered to her sheets.

Chase was gone when she awoke. The only reminder of him was a note anchored by a stack of sugar-dusted crêpes, the green sticky-note crumpling between her fist and disfiguring his scrawl of—' _we need to talk'._

And Molly did need to talk—to rant, even—but to Kathy. She had sent her a cryptic text message— _'I did it! With him!'_ —while the blonde responded with a series exclamation marks and winking punctuation.

Footsteps crunched the gravel outside and her door whipped open. Kathy's expression was giddy, like a child let loose in a sweet shop. Her fingers curled around a small, neatly folded paper bag as her heel kicked the door closed.

Molly folded her arms over the paisley quilt and made a gun gesture with her hand, pressing the barrel to her skull whilst mouthing _'kill me'._ Kathy's lips slanted in amusement as she strode over and bounced her weight down onto the side of the bed.

"Well, don't we look lively?"

Molly groaned and slid her wrist over her eyes. "I _feel_ even livelier."

"Here," her french-manicured nails clawed through the bag, the silence filled with the crackling of paper. "You owe me, honey. I've never seen Jin's eyebrows so high."

Kathy extended several packets of pills—paracetamol and vitamins and the morning after pill. Molly flushed and gulped as she deposited them into her cupped hands.

"I'm assuming you weren't careful."

"Careful and drunk aren't words I'd string together, no," Molly mused her hair, smile thankful despite her shame. "Thanks, Kath. Tea?"

The farmer untangled the sheets from her limbs and rose, padding into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and placed it onto the hob, switching the gas. Her kettle was old-fashioned and Chase berated her for her medieval appliances. He declared that he would buy her an electric kettle for Christmas.

"Go on then, but no sugar! I won't fit into my dress otherwise."

Kathy dragged out a dining chair and idly tugged a leaf on the artificial plant that centered the table.

"Chase likes his tea bitter, too," she compared, voice holding a smile.

"Was it named after him?"

"I'd wager it."

"Speaking of _Chase,"_ Kathy's tone was suggestive. "Spill. The. Details. I'm withering over here!"

Molly rolled her eyes as the kettle whistled. She took the chipped mug for herself and gave Kathy the one with the metallic finish, finger-prints always staining the surface. In order to tease Kathy on her wedding-diet, she plucked a packet of chocolate biscuits from the cupboard. The blonde's eyes flashed and she puckered her lips.

The farmer spooned three cubes of sugar into her tea and stirred. "How'd you know it was him?"

"Who _else_ would it be?"

"Um, Hamilton, maybe? Don't judge me."

"Thanks for _that_ image," she rolled her eyes, cup hovering before her lips. "What was he _like?_ _Chase,_ I mean."

"Like I can _remember."_

Kathy sloped forwards, grin reaching her ears. "Liar."

Molly exhaled as her eyes fixed on the packet of pills. "I suppose I freaked him out at first—when I kissed him, that is. He froze and tried to stop me, then I... I must have _done_ something and he flipped and his eyes—god, he's never looked at me like that. They were hungry—"

 _"Hungry?"_ Kathy tossed her head back and laughed, the sound melodic and girlish. "Of all the darn words in the world and that's how you'd describe them?"

"Can I please live my embarrassing life? Thanks. In some kind of undressing stumble we landed in my room—in my, uh, bed. Then he kissed me when he—he was gentle, as though he was afraid I might break or something. But he was... closed off. His walls were up."

She winked, voice mocking. _"Hot."_

"Is it though? _Really?"_

"Duh!"

"I think I must've asked him to hold me after. I don't think he wanted too—he was probably sobering up, after all. So I curled on my side with my back facing him. I felt the weight of his hand on my waist, but that's it. I don't know if he slept at all. I didn't want to turn over and check."

"Did you?"

"I think the alcohol knocked me out."

Kathy craned her neck to the living room where the drained bottle of vodka situated on the coffee table. She arched her eyebrows. "I'm not surprised."

 _'Stop—'_ he had warned. _'You'll regret this in the morning.'_

 _'Please, Chase.'_

Molly moaned as snippets from last night's conversations reeled through her mind. She popped a tablet from the packaging and swallowed with a mouthful of scalding tea. Her gums burned and turned numb.

"Oh, Kathy. I'm so _humiliated!_ You should have _seen_ the way I was acting beforehand—I was so clingy and teary and sad—or in other words, an absolute _mess."_

She reached over and patted her hand. "I don't get why you're getting so worked up over this, hon. It was _bound_ to happen sooner or later."

At her words, Molly's mind was transported to the night in the Italian bistro. Chase reclined in his seat, swilling the contents of his glass.

 _"Impossible,"_ he had said. _"You can't be friends with the opposite sex without wanting to date them."_ He studied her face and his expression soured. _"Eventually. But certain thoughts would run through your head anyway, and it would be ruined. Pointless. Best to avoid it."_

Her eyes widened and she shrunk back. "How can you _say_ that? We've known each other for years—he's one of my best friends and I've just _ruined_ it! God, I was the one who came onto _him!_ I was the one who _forced_ him to ruin our friendship!"

"Now," her tone twinned a strict mother. "Do you really think Chase would do something he didn't want to do?"

"I suppose not."

Molly exhaled and lowered her gaze, liquid staring up at her. Sugar granules floated to the surface—she added too much, yet it still tasted bitter to her.

"So where is he? Was he there when you woke up?" Her head tossed from side-to-side, as though she believed Molly had hidden him in her wardrobe or boiler cupboard.

Molly's eyes traveled to the plate of half-eaten crêpes on the bed. They were good—better than any of her culinary experiments. But they lacked the spark of flavour and precision that Chase always integrated into his cooking—edges burnt while a thick layer of icing-sugar failed to mask the imperfection. He'd thrown them together, rushed and distracted. Molly liked to think of them as a half-hearted apology as to why he couldn't stay.

"No," her thumb circled the rim of the mug. "But I didn't expect him to be. I'm kind of relieved, actually. It would have been awkward if he was. He made me breakfast and left a note—" Molly fished into the pocket of her cotton shorts and located the sticky-note. It was torn and barely distinguishable. "Which I've apparently mauled."

"What does it say?"

"He wants to talk."

Kathy made a noise of frustration. "Honey, why are you still sitting here and talking to me? Go and _talk_ to the guy!"

 **.:.**

The farmer once again took Kathy's advice and she soon found herself on Chase's doorstep. She flicked on a pair of sunglasses to—one, avoid eye contact—two, to shroud her puffy eyes—and three, to give her hands something to fiddle with. She inhaled shakily, stomach churning with nausea.

Why was she so nervous?

Her knuckles rapped on wood and he answered instantly. The door whipped open with such force that it caught his foot and he winced, a curse tumbling from his lips. He was dressed, but his hair was messy and tangled while dark rims stained under his eyes. He was unshaven, and he reminded Molly of a haunted writer.

"Uh, are you coming in or what?"

Chase sounded awkward and it shook her. He was always cool and collected with a sarcastic remark quick on his tongue. He was looking at her without really looking at her, eyes glazed over with fatigue.

Molly blundered. "W-What?"

His stare focused. "As I'm the perfect embodiment of a gentleman, I'm inviting you inside. Unless you want to talk out here and catch hypothermia amidst our conversation, then fine."

"No, um, sorry. I'll come in."

"Good idea."

He stepped aside and Molly entered, almost tripping over the mat. They stood in the center of his kitchen and she pushed up her sunglasses. The silence was suffocating and they avoided each other's eyes like the plague. Eventually Chase cleared his throat, fingers raking through his hair.

"I've ran out of... tea."

"It's fine. I had some before I left."

"Right."

Chase's lips twisted uncomfortably as he mechanically dragged out a dining chair and sat. Molly shadowed him. His fingers itched the collar of his turtleneck, flashing a bruise. Molly squeaked with embarrassment and toed her boots against the floorboards.

"Look, last night was a mistake," the words left his lips in one rushed, impatient breath.

Molly flinched. "Oh—you think so?"

His eyebrows pinched in confusion as he slouched in his seat. "Don't you?"

"No, yeah, of course," she shook her head, voice quiet. "Last night was a mistake."

The tension left his shoulders, eyes clearing with relief as his lips curved into a half-smile. "You hungry? I've got strawberry cheesecake in the fridge—"

"Sorry," Molly stood abruptly, the chair screeching wood. "But I think I should go. I feel a little ill—most likely the beginnings of a cold, you know?" She forced a smile and her cheeks ached. "You're coming to Kathy's wedding next week, aren't you?"

He rolled his eyes and rose, leaning his weight on the back of the frame. "I'm the only caterer on the island. Unless she plans on her guests starving, I think it's self-explanatory."

She plucked the sunglasses from the table and slipped them on, an awkward chuckle spilling from her lips. "Yeah, obviously. Sorry. Well—bye-bye."

Spinning on her heel, she fled the house. She halted when she reached the stone bridge and the memory of Maya's teary face and disgruntled appearance resurfaced in her mind. _'Promise you won't fall in love with him, 'kay? Because all that meanie will do is hurt you—crush your heart into a million pieces!'_

Rushing water drowned out the sound of her sobs, salty droplets mingling with the stream.

 **.:.**

Autumn was the theme of Kathy and Owen's wedding.

Molly remembered the endless days—and _nights_ —of wedding planning she had endured with her.

 _'Do you think warm tones compliment my hair?'_ Kathy had asked her as she waved two swatches of material. Apparently they were different tones of red, but Molly couldn't tell the difference.

She hummed with thought. _'What about Owen's hair?'_

Kathy moaned and banged her head against the table. Chase strolled into Molly's house soon after asking if she had lost it—was she attempting to induce herself into a coma? A shoulder bag was slung across his torso, holding paper and pencils and various flavours of icing and sponge in order to finalize the design of her wedding cake.

Molly immediately suggested a strawberry ripple cake, yet Chase whacked her on the back of the head informing her that it wasn't _her_ wedding. The blonde wiggled her eyebrows and joked that Chase would make the best strawberry cake in the world for _their_ wedding. Molly flushed while Chase fumed, threatening to burn it.

Kathy eventually settled on a simple vanilla sponge with raspberry and cream filling. Neither she or Owen possessed a sweet-tooth and the option was neutral, appealing to the rest of the guests.

Yet all of the stress was forgotten as Molly glanced down to her bridesmaid dress—identical to Luna and Candace's. The skirt fluttered in a myriad of red, orange and yellow, and from the sweetheart neckline floated chiffon straps. The farmer appeared to be the embodiment of elegance—until she lowered her gaze to her neon-green painted toes. She exhaled and lifted her bouquet of freshly picked anemones.

"What a spectacle," Chase's drawl resounded from the doorway. "Dolly's all dolled up."

Molly almost dropped the flowers with fright. She spun around and fixed the chef a glare, which he returned with a small, crooked smile. Her eyes averted to his attire—he wore a finely pressed black suit, white shirt, unbuttoned at the top and a slack, red tie. A blush creeped across her cheeks while butterflies frenzied her stomach; she had never seen Chase look so fancy. He even combed his hair back, the neatness enhancing his features somewhat.

She knew she had been staring with the crook of his eyebrow, yet her attention soon shifted to Luna's shrill, haughty voice.

"Chase! This is the dressing room! The _females_ dressing room! Leave!"

Chase rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "It's not like there is anything appealing to look at in here."

Candace reddened and Luna pursed her lips, blue eyes slit. Molly mused her hair and avoided his eyes; she was still uncomfortable around him because of the events of last week. It wasn't something she could move on from easily, even if he could.

Luna huffed and proceeded to throw a high heel at his head—luckily, he managed to swerve it.

"God, Pinky," his jaw was set, eyes narrowed. "I thought we wanted to attend a wedding not a funeral—just give me a minute."

He ignored Luna's continuous complaints as he strolled across the room, halting when he stood in front of Molly. He plucked one of the anemones from her bouquet and her eyebrows knit in confusion—yet he surprised her further. He fished one of his hair-clips from his breast pocket and attached the flower to it.

"You're quiet," he murmured in observation, voice deep and drawn out like always. It felt like a lifetime since she last heard it, even though only a week had passed.

"Yes, well..." Molly began, finding her green toes particularly intriguing. "I am... a... quiet person."

A sound which resembled a laugh formed in his throat, eyes secretive as though there was a hidden joke within her words. His fingers brushed her ear as they gathered a piece of freshly curled hair, pinning it back with the flower-slide he fashioned.

"Better," he announced as he turned to leave. When he reached the doorway, he craned his neck back. His lips teased her but his eyes were modest. "Red suits you."

Molly couldn't decipher if he was referring to her complexion or her gown. Yet her opportunity of questioning vanished along with his figure. She was left puzzled and blinking at the doorway in his wake.

However Luna's voice snapped her out of her reverie, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Ahem? What _exactly_ is going on between you two?"

"We're just... friends."

But as she fingered the slide, she found that she couldn't believe her words.

 **.:.**

Owen's hands twitched with nerves as he stood at the altar, awaiting for the arrival of his bride.

Molly, Luna and Candace filed into the church and she caught Chase's eye. He slouched in the pew, foot resting on his knee. He flicked a stay curl from his eyes and mouthed— _'don't fall'._ Her tongue clicked and she returned her attention straight ahead. The trio of bridesmaids huddled to the side as Kathy entered the church, arm looped with Hayden's.

Light beams from the stained-glass window spotlighted her and she glowed. The white peplum of her gown hugged every curve—hourglass perfection.

Molly and her skewed amusement half-expected Kathy to jive down the aisle to _Like A Virgin._ She snorted and Luna tossed her a withering glare and crudely jabbed an elbow in her side. Chase would find that funny, she decided. Yet Kathy didn't humour her vision—her strides held elegance and poise, chin tilted while a tiny smile tugged her baby-pink lips.

Once her figure met the altar, she kissed her father's cheek and took Owen's hands into her own. Amidst Perry conducting the vows, her gaze drifted to Chase and he openly yawned. He didn't care for weddings—he didn't see their purpose. It was just a stupid piece of paper, he had said. It doesn't change a relationship—only the means of escape. Her lips pulled sadly at his cynicism.

The rings were exchanged and with a flutter of confetti, the duo were married.

To Molly it only seemed like yesterday that the two of them were naive university students—partying and bingeing on cheap beer, dancing to out-of-date songs and chatting nonsense to strangers at bars. Stumbling back to their respective dorms in the early hours of the morning, uncoordinated arms shrugged around shoulders as the sound of their hysterical laughter echoed the desolate streets.

Those days were gone.

Her best friend was _married._

A tear rolled down her cheek and she swiped it with the back of her hand, the sound of Kathy calling her name startling her.

"If I'm getting hitched, you can be sure as hell that you are too! Catch, honey!"

The bride twirled and threw her bouquet into Molly's hands. Her expression remained confused, yet Kathy simply winked and smiled deviously before returning her attention to her husband.

Molly knew this wasn't how the bouquet toss worked. Nevertheless, she laughed and clapped along with the rest of the town as she held up her victory prize.

 **.:.**

The after party was held in the Brass Bar.

Molly loomed in the corner and sipped a strawberry daiquiri as she observed the unfolding scene. Kathy had indulged in countless numbers of alcoholic beverages and was attempting to persuade Owen to dance along to _Lady Marmalade._ Laughter spilled from the farmer's lips—Owen tried to appease his wife, but his movements were robotic and clumsy. He repeatedly shot pleading looks to Luke, who grinned obliviously and gave a thumbs-up.

Chase stalked over to her dark corner once he had completed the buffet preparations. He still donned his suit, but with the absence of a tie and jacket, his sleeves rolled up. He leaned against the wall with crossed arms, sparing her a glance from the room crowded with drunkards.

"Someone's been avoiding me."

Molly knew this was coming. Apart from the brief conversation before the wedding, she hadn't spoken to him since arriving on his doorstep the morning after. She steered clear of the bar and ignored his relentless phone calls. He'd sent her a text message inquiring if Paris had trampled her to death, and when she didn't respond, his next tactic was to come over and investigate. The coward that she was, Molly hid under her bed and blocked out his impatient knocking.

For an entire week she hadn't left her farmland and Kathy accused her of being a hermit who avoided her problems.

"Avoiding? I don't know what you're talking about," she prayed her voice sounded even. "I haven't been avoiding you. I've just been extremely busy."

She avoided his eyes and focused upon stirring her cocktail. The green umbrella submerged and she frowned as she watched it disintegrate. Chase straightened and towered over her.

 _"Busy,"_ he mimicked. "The only way you'd go a week without pestering me to make you ice-cream is if you were dead. And as you seem to be alive, the only other conclusion is avoidance, which is what you're doing."

Molly snapped her head upwards and slammed her drink down onto the nearest table. Her eyes blazed with pent-up fury while hands gestured wildly. "Oh, give me a _break!_ Are you a detective now? Are you changing your career path? Believe it or not, Chesney, but I don't have to tell you what I'm doing every second of the day."

His expression remained stony, eyes slit. "Never stopped you before."

"Well, that's before we _slept together!"_ Molly hissed.

"God," his palms smoothed his hair back. "You're still hung up on that?"

"You act like it didn't mean anything!"

"Because it didn't!"

Residents began to crane their necks to investigate the yelling, so she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him into the empty kitchen. It was spotless, despite it's recent use.

"So, if it didn't mean anything," she pressed. "Why did you do it?"

"Why? Because you were looking at me with your weepy brown eyes and you made it impossible for me to say no to you!"

"You _pitied_ me, is that it?"

Chase stepped backwards, hands behind his head. "You know what, Dolly? I knew this would happen—I told you this would happen the first time I met you. The opposite sex can't be friends because this bit would get in the way. And surprise, surprise. We sleep together, and look what's happened? This friendship we had? Out of the window."

"What, so you wish you never _met me?"_

"It would have been a hell of a lot easier if I hadn't."

Molly's laugh was humourless, gaze fixed on the kitchen tile. Her hands curled into fists, nails cutting into her palm; it was all she could do to refrain from slapping him. Her eyes were unforgivable as they met his and he gulped, hoping to swallow his words. His face was pale—twisted in regret.

"You've always been harsh, Chase. But this is a new low, even for you. _Screw you."_

She spun on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen, yet Chase's footfalls informed her that he was quick behind her.

"Look, Dolly—wait—I didn't mean—!"

"Speak of the two devils!" Kathy slurred into the microphone while Owen steadied her with the pull on her waist. "I want to make a toast—to Molly and Chase—if either one of us found them remotely attractive... well, we wouldn't be here today—"

"To Molly and Chase!" Owen finished with haste, raising his beer. It was probable that he was fearful of what else an intoxicated Kathy could say.

"Molly and Chase!" chorused the rest of the town with the lifting and clinking of glasses.

Chase cursed under his breath while Molly flushed and faked a smile, not wanting to ruin Kathy's special day.


	11. You're Not Punny

**.:. Eleven .:.**

 _ **Two Months Later**_

"She still won't answer the phone. She doesn't want to talk to me."

Chase was situated at the bar, multitudes of empty shot glasses cluttering the top. He was being pathetic, or perhaps harbouring an addiction—he wasn't sure which. He asked Kathy for another, yet she refused—she may be a waitress, but the role didn't involve mopping up vomit or carrying drunkards home, she had said. Chase grumbled about her hypocritical existence.

"She's being _stupid,"_ he continued. "Why does she have to take everything I say to heart? God, it's not like I meant it or anything."

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Kathy questioned, curious.

"Look, I'm not going to lie. Of course it would have been easier if I hadn't of met her—she's not exactly what one calls _low-maintenance._ But I don't _regret_ meeting her. How could I? She's the—"

Her lips formed a perfect 'O' shape as she sloped forwards, eager to hear his response. "She's _what?"_

 _The closest thing I have._

He averted his eyes and shrugged. "The embodiment of insanity."

Kathy hummed in musing as she doodled on the pad of order-taking paper—a heart and a flower. "Why don't ya try something different? When Owen and I get into a fight, he'd always leave a bouquet of my favourite flowers at the bar for me. I can't help but forgive him then."

Chase snorted. "We're not a couple."

"Uh huh," her eyebrows arched disbelievingly.

"You know what?" He stood abruptly, hanging his jacket over his arm. "No, if she wants to talk to me, she'll talk to me. I'm fed up of looking like an idiot."

Kathy shook her head and collected his glasses.

 **.:.**

The blare of water from the tap silenced her sigh. Molly's nail-polish chipped from the monotonous scrubbing of dishes, the pads of her fingers pruned. Her eyes drifted to the frame on her kitchen window sill and a sad smile tugged her lips. The image was of Chase—it was caught in the moment, natural and unaware.

Molly recognised the backdrop of her living room, and if she recalled, they were watching a comedy on the television. He wore the navy speckled jumper that had found a home in her draws due to the complaints of her drafty farmhouse. He was laughing, shoulders hunched while eyes scrunched and crinkled. His lips stretched—wide and crooked and goofy as he palmed his forehead, hands trapping stray curls. He appeared childlike when he laughed— _truly_ laughed—and Molly loved it. Real and imperfect and vulnerable.

Her chest ached when she thought about him. Occasionally, she considered forgiving him just so she could set eyes upon his face and his teasing smile and listen to his sarcastic, drawn out voice or taste the familiar flavours of his cooking.

The structure of normality in her life had been shattered by his words—she watched movies alone, the absence of a blanketed figure on her couch unsettling. She was forced to revert to store-bought ice-cream and she realised that her taste buds had been spoilt over the years. It tasted bland and chemical compared to his pink velvet sweetness.

Yet Molly hadn't spoken to him since the wedding.

On the other hand, Chase tried _idiotic_ methods to talk to her.

For instance, there was the events of the previous week. Paris trotted the field in a thick, fleeced coat, fruitlessly searching for blades of green amidst the cold whiteness. Her tail swished while her sporadic moos filled the silence of the farmer's labour. Molly was tending her crops when she noticed a note anchored by a melon. She dusted the snow from the paper, splotches running the ink.

 _What do you get if you pair a melon up with a broccoli?_

Molly rolled her eyes at his game, meandering over to the broccoli and plucking out another note.

 _Melancholy._

 _Please answer my calls._

The notes continued the following day, this time in the plot of bean-sprouts.

 _I know you find these punny._

 _Did you get the cookies? Call me._

 _I've Bean missing you._

And lastly, the beetroot.

 _Things have been down-Beet without you._

 _Dolly, don't let me do this forever._

 _I'm running out of puns. Call._

But Molly ignored his prompts and didn't call. Kathy swooned at his forgiveness attempts and implored her to give him another chance, but the blonde was still deluded with her post-marriage happiness. Molly was furious with herself—she was being cynical, just like him.

Among the town gossip, she had heard that Chase had been particularly moody in work during the past few months. The kitchen doors hung from their hinges in response to Renee ordering strawberry ice-cream in a rare, fleeting trip to the bar. Glasses and plates were routinely smashed with his short-temper and the cost of repairs were taken out of his tight wages. Guilt welled in Molly's stomach, as though the business of the bar rested upon her shoulders.

She wanted to forgive him, but she knew it wouldn't be earnest.

Did he really wish that he never met her? He was her best friend—did all those years mean nothing to him?

Exhaling, she slotted a soapy plate into the drainer and lifted her eyes to the window. Snowflakes clung to the pane in their hurried flurry, yet amidst the obstruction a glimpse of peach was visible on the path. Molly squinted and Chase's figure focused, face hidden with his houndstooth scarf as mittens poorly fluffed the snow from his hair. She made a noise of frustration and grabbed her phone to call him. He answered immediately, rosy cheeks rising with a smile.

"If you go near those onions I will hang up right now," she warned.

"And she finally answers," his voice was muffled into his scarf, yet it had undertones of joy—relief. "You know, you would make an appalling secretary."

"Luckily I'm a farmer then. How else would you have accomplished all of those terrible puns?"

"Easy—I would have sat outside your house and serenaded you with them instead. What else?"

"No you wouldn't."

"You're right, I wouldn't. I would have paid Luke to do it."

Molly sighed and adjusted the phone against her ear. "What do you want, Chesney?"

He matched her sigh and toed the snow. "I'm the worst and I say things I don't mean. I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"'Okay,'" he frowned. "That's it?"

"I have to go."

"Go where?"

"Somewhere."

"God, whatever, I get it. You're still mad."

"Yes, I'm _still_ mad! Unlike you, I actually _remember_ the important things—like people's names _and_ hurtful things!"

Molly punched the red button and stormed away from the window, but not without a final glance at the wilted anemone slide on the dining table.

 **.:.**

This was fine. _He_ was fine.

Chase had lived a perfectly _fine_ life for twenty-two years before he met her. And he'd been _fine._

He clicked his tongue as his hand clasped tighter around the frying pan, knuckles white. The mushrooms had frizzled, like tiny black caterpillars emitting smoke. He cursed and deposited them into the bin. He needed a distraction, yet nothing had worked. He'd cleaned, even organised. He glanced at his dining table where he placed small, worthless things of hers that he had found.

A pink spotted sock. A DVD sleeve, absent of DVD.

Why didn't he throw them out? They held no value.

 _But maybe she needed them,_ a stupid thought surfaced. They were missing pieces, lost without their other half. A sock without it's pair, a DVD case with no DVD. Over the past few months, he'd realised how much he took her company for granted. She drove him crazy—he couldn't hear himself think when he was around her. Yet in her absence, that's all he could do. _Think._

He'd shamefully missed not being able to think.

He was... what was the word? _Confused._ He ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged on a coat and exited the house, the door slamming shut behind him.

 **.:.**

"He isn't here, honey. I don't think he's coming."

Molly felt a weight on her shoulder—Kathy's hand. Her eyes ceased their scan of the town square and zoned in on green.

It was the New Year's Eve festival.

The small population of the island collated the town square for the yearly festivity, haloed by strings of glimmering fairy lights. A fashion contest was finalized with the victory of Luna, petite figure perched on the podium as she twirled, skirt fanning outwards like a Chinese parasol. Mayor Hamilton mingled with the residents, exchanging idle chatter about their respective families and businesses, shadowed by his son, Gill. Alcoholic beverages were a popular choice, many shocked and others relieved that yet another year was drawing to a close.

Kathy stood in front of her, clothed in a burgundy bubble coat while opaque tights shrouded skin. Condensation clouds left her lips with each breath, yet Molly imagined her warmth as she snuggled into Owen's chest. One arm slung around his waist while the miner shrugged his around her shoulders.

Conversely, Molly was cold and shivering. She tightened her scarf and tugged her jacket closer—she didn't know why she had come tonight. She promised herself that she would have found a date by the next festival; yet here she was, clad in her chiffon blue dress, alone and miserable without the company of her second-best-friend.

"I know he isn't," her smile was strained, cheeks sore. "I was just observing the scene. We really out did it with the lights this year, huh? Very bright. Maybe we'd even be seen from space. Perhaps not that far, but I suppose if the lighthouse went out of order, people could still find their way back."

The corner of Kathy's lips creased in sympathy at the words secondary connotations.

"Hello everyone!" Hamilton's cheery voice boomed from the microphone. "Welcome to the New Year's Eve festival! Now, it's only fifteen minutes to midnight, so how about you all make a wish before we start the countdown?"

 _I wish that he was here._

"What'd you wish for?" Kathy inquired lightly.

"Just something stupid," she murmured, flexing her frozen fingers. "You?"

Kathy craned and pecked Owen's lips, entwining their fingers. He was surprised, yet his mouth slanted, dark-blue eyes soft as he smoothed the collar of her coat. "I don't have anything to wish for."

Molly wanted to cry at the sight of their affection—she felt lonely and it was a painful reminder of her failed love life. She was overbearing and dramatic and eccentric—no man in their right mind would take her as a wife, not when beauties like Kathy and Karen roamed the earth. She wanted to go home and mope and ponder the names for her cats.

"Ten minutes to midnight!" Hamilton's voice resounded and Molly exhaled.

"Kaths, I'm gonna take off," she announced. "I have to get up early in the morning and to be quite frank, the thought of standing here, alone, in the middle of the town square while everyone exchanges midnight kisses makes me rather sad."

"Oh, honey! Don't be like that!" Kathy's lips puckered. "Just stay for five more minutes?"

"Yeah! Don't worry, Molly," Owen flashed her a fish-hooked grin. "I'll kiss ya."

"I'm sorry," she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she waved statically. "Enjoy the rest of your night."

Weaving through the crowds, she murmured apologies when she collided with an arm or stepped on a foot. Suddenly, a figure stumbled to a halt in her line of vision. He was breathless and rosy cheeked, palming his forehead as eyes darted around the vicinity. Molly stared at Chase with parted lips. They locked gazes and the tension left his body, eyes flooding with relief.

"Chase?" her voice carried the throng of people, eyebrows knit in confusion. "What are you—?"

He jogged to meet her, hands slapping down on her shoulders as he arched forwards. His eyes were bright and wild, hair frizzed and messy. He was smiling like a manic and he reminded her of a mad scientist.

"I hope you're happy, Dolly," he began. "Because you've defeated me."

Molly recalled his words on the boat— _'Love? I'd feel defeated to fall in love.'_

She shook her head while a humourless sound formed in her throat. "You don't love me, Chesney. It's New Year's Eve and you're deluded with loneliness and boredom." Her arms shoved his and she attempted to walk past him, but he made a noise of frustration and grabbed her wrist, forcing her to face him.

"I've been walking around this stupid town for hours, and you know all that's been going through my head? I wish that Dolly was here. And then I thought, why do I want her here? And you know what my instant reaction was? Because I love her. Not because she's my friend, and not because I'm bored or lonely. Because I _love_ her."

"Five minutes to midnight!" Hamilton reminded while cheers and whistles echoed the square.

Her attention switched to Chase and his expression was serious, eyes flecked with anxiety. A crease formed above his nose with the furrow of his eyebrows as he held his lip between his teeth, awaiting her response.

Tears pricked her eyes as they burned holes into her silver shoes. "You hurt me, Chase," Molly mumbled. "What do you want me to say?"

"How about you love me too."

"How about I don't believe you?"

"Believe this—I love your awful taste in movies; I love that all you can eat is strawberry ice-cream; I love your insane fashion sense; I love your rambling speech; I love your unfunny jokes and I love that you're the last person I want to speak to on the phone before I go to sleep at night."

Molly glanced up at him, eyes bewildered.

Chase raked his fingers through his hair, the rare sighting of a blush dusting his complexion. "Like your blue dress," he gestured. "I'm here because I want you and I'm not about to wait for someone else to act on it. It's all on me."

Molly was rendered speechless—he loved her, faults and all. Her mouth twitched into a smile, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

"There you go," she laughed shortly, the pad of his thumb swiping the droplet. "Being all poetic, again."

He curved an eyebrow. "Well?"

"You're a catch."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

 _"Ten… Nine… Eight…"_

"Wow," his lips quirked modestly, despite the evident sarcasm. "Some men have all the luck."

 _"…Five… Four… Three…"_

Molly smiled as she tugged on the material of his coat, closing the distance. She felt his heartbeat drumming underneath her fingertips, pale strands tickling her forehead as cold noses brushed.

 _"…One… Happy New Year!"_

Eyelashes batted cheeks. His head tilted and lips met, a hand curled around her waist while the other cupped her cheek, thumb trapped between short snow-dusted strands. Molly flung her arms around his neck and drew him closer, aching for warmth against the winter chill. Snow fluttered and stung their skin, inharmonious cheers and the explosions of fireworks resonating behind them.

"Molly, Chase! Well, what do we have here!"

Hamilton's exemplified voice shattered the enclosure they had built for themselves, all flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Molly met Kathy's eyes and she was beaming, bouncing on the balls of her feet as her hands began to clap. It was slow and staggered, but soon enough, the crowds followed suit until the square erupted in noise.

"What next?" Chase whispered in her ear. "Roses thrown to our feet?"

"I see our predictions were rightly judged!" The Mayor continued once their congratulations dimmed. "Now, who was it that bet on six years? Was it you, Julius?"

Molly gaped and glanced upwards at Chase. With his pursed lips, she assumed that he was irritated. He still held her waist, fingers idly running along her side.

"You _bet_ on us?"

"I know Dolly's horse-face may have skewed your judgement, but shockingly, we're not racehorses."

"Hey!" she whacked his arm, repressing a smile.

"Ouch?"

"Ouch to my _feelings,_ too."

She buried her face into his chest and he lazily shrugged an arm around her.

"Be careful, people might get the right idea."

His chest vibrated when he spoke, indicating a laugh. He was warm and orange and cinnamon drifted to her nose—scents of home after a long vacation.

"I missed you," she murmured into the fabric as her frame shook with sobs. She silently pleaded that Chase hadn't caught onto her crying. Yet with the dark splotches staining his shirt and the way his hand followed and moved to her shuddery breathing, she was certain that he had.

"Crying _and_ hugging, huh? You're good at that."

She lifted her head, eyes apologetic. "Sorry—"

"Don't. It's okay."

His hand cradled the crown of her head and she hid her streaked face into his shirt once more. Both of his arms were tight around her, lips brushing her ear.

"I was painfully aware of your absence, too."

 **.:.**

Mayor Hamilton ignited a series of fireworks in their honour. They snuck away to the docks, legs swinging from wooden planks. Sparkling bursts of colour reflected against black water, the lights flashing and irradiating their faces. Molly craned in an attempt to see the skyline of the city, yet all that met her eyes was the endless expanse of stars.

"Why can't we see the city from here?"

Chase shook his head, the toe of his shoe rippling the water. "It's too far away."

"How far?"

A firework exploded, his face washed in a myriad of blue and green and red. "A distant memory."

"Chesney?"

"What?"

Cold, hesitant fingers fumbled for his in the darkness, intertwining to the dying rings of sound.

"Happy New Year."

He squeezed, thumb sweeping her knuckles. "Right back at you, Dolly."

 _ **The End**_


	12. Update

**Update!**

Hello! Yes, not a chapter-update, I'm afraid. Reading all of your lovely reviews (thank you for those, by the way) I decided to write and **post a sequel** called **"Violets".** Give it a read if you're interested! It wasn't doing me any favours being stuck in my noggin, except for perhaps a headache...

 **allyelle~**


End file.
